


gasoline

by ventrie



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Tony Stark, Brainwashed Tony Stark, Brainwashing, Gratuitous Violence, Hurt Tony Stark, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, Torture, Winter Soldier Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2019-10-08 01:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17376836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ventrie/pseuds/ventrie
Summary: "I'm going to kill you," Tony whispers, and he means it, down to his fucking core."There are worse things than death, Mr. Stark. You of all people should know."In which Tony Stark is reborn, broken, and remade at the hands of HYDRA.





	1. holy

**Author's Note:**

> after watching tony take a header in the Mark I during his escape from afghanistan, i was like, hey, what if rhodey hadn't come in time? what if, somehow, i could make this situation go from really bad to _even fucking worse_?
> 
> this is the product of a whole lot of winter soldier angst, chronic insomnia, and fourteen hours of listening to badlands on repeat.
> 
> it's not a pleasant story. it's not even, like, a particularly _good_ story.
> 
> but it's going to have a happy ending. eventually.

This is what he remembers: heat, dust. The smell of charred flesh.

His mind is blank as he moves through the compound. There's metal in his chest and a cold kind of fury that leaves no room for remorse.

 _Don't waste it, Stark_ , Yinsen says, and Tony doesn't intend to.

This is vengeance, not redemption, but there's no one around to remind him of the difference.

Explosions, gunshots ringing in his ears. Time stands still.

One last trick up his sleeve: he presses a button, and then, without warning, he's thrown into the air. He's _flying_ , flames licking at his back under the hot Afghani sun.

For a single moment, he's free.

And then, headfirst at fifty miles an hour, Tony _falls_.

◢✥◣

It's _bright_.

That's the first thing he notices before even opening his eyes. Harsh, industrial light pounds against his eyelids, matching the staccato of a rapidly intensifying headache.

It's bright, and, holy shit, he _hurts_.

Tony's no stranger to pain, but this is a step or two above a Mai Tai hangover. His entire body feels like a bruise, like a burn, like a live wire with every breath he takes.

Carefully, he opens his eyes.

 _Hospital_ , is his first thought, stars dancing in his vision, because that's what it looks like. White, sterile, complete with the faint smell of antiseptic and the steady beep of a machine somewhere to his left. He's in a hospital and not in the desert, not in a cave, and it's good, that's _good_.

He takes another breath, ignoring the way his entire body seems to protest the movement.

That means he's been _found_.

For one ridiculous moment, Tony lets the relief wash over him, closes his eyes and tries to get his bearings because, seriously, he's about two seconds away from honest to god _crying_.

Safe. Fucking hell, he's _safe_.

Time stretches out, languid and inexact, in that fun little way it does when you're drugged up to the gills with a head injury. He's too tired to do anything but lie there there, content to hover somewhere between consciousness and oblivion.

Minutes, hours pass, and the room is quiet; the steady thump of his heart feels like a lullaby.

Wait.

It's _quiet_.

That's the second thing he notices, the silence, and it takes him a moment to understand.

Because, okay, here's the thing: hospitals are loud, even when they're not, even when they're military grade. They're full of people, and people make _noise_ ; through closed doors, he should be able to hear the sound of someone, _anyone_ , going about their business. The total absence of sound is a statistical anomaly.

And, hell, maybe he's paranoid, maybe he's just doped up, but hospitals are never, _ever_ , this quiet.

Something's wrong.                                          

Focusing takes effort, but Tony manages to force his eyes open again. He's on his back in the middle of a room. He's on a table- metal, if the cold dig into his shoulders is anything to go by- and it feels like there's a needle in his left arm, probably hooked up to the IV drip that's been keeping him under.

There's a stool to his right and a small table beyond that. His shoulder screams in protest when he tries for a better look.

Chancing a glance down, Tony notes that he's shirtless, clad only in a pair of cheap cotton pants. The reactor juts from his chest amidst a patchwork of still-pink scars.

Still there, still ugly, but, _hey_. Functional. Small mercies, or something like that.

Wincing, he lets his head fall back against the table. Untreated head injury, cracked ribs, creepy lab that looks like something out of Hannibal Lecter's basement? Yeah, no, this isn't a hospital and it's definitely not a military base.

Dread sneaks up on him, then, making his gut churn and the back of his neck prickle. His head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton but his skin is crawling.

In the back of his mind, a voice whispers _run_.

It's the same part of the brain that's afraid of the dark, the part that just _knows_ not to touch this or eat that. It's instinct, it's desperation. It's what got him through the beatings, the drownings, the fucking _open-heart surgery_.

 _Survival_ , that's what it's about.

And Tony- well, he'd like to think that his self-preservation instincts have come a long way in the past few months. He needs to move, and he needs to move, like, _now_.

The third thing he notices is the restraints pinning his wrists and ankles down.

Several things click into place all at once.

And, okay, struggling is _useless_ , Tony _knows_ it's useless, but he does it anyways, bucking and straining against the bite of unforgiving steel. All it does is agitate is injuries, press bone into soft, damaged tissue.

He doesn't give a flying _fuck_.

The door opens and someone comes in, shoves him flat against the table. It should hurt- it _does_ hurt- but rage makes him blind, drives every rational thought from his head. He hears someone yelling, thinks, distantly, that it might be him.

Shame wells up in the back of his throat like bile, and that's the worst thing- it's not the pain, not the torture, it's not even the fact that he'd burned one cage to the ground only to be dragged straight into another.

Another pair of hands yanks his head back, forcing him down, and _no_ , this wasn't supposed to happen. He got out, _he got out_.

There's a pinch at his neck, but it's the brutal backhand that sends him tumbling down into darkness.

He welcomes it.

 _Yinsen died for nothing_.

◢✥◣

This time around, consciousness is an ugly, abrupt thing.

Tony groans, blinking to clear the dots from his eyes. He feels worse than before, which seems, like, _physically impossible_ , but what the hell, he's always been an overachiever.

"Good evening, Mr. Stark."

"You and I," he manages after a moment, "have very different definitions of 'good'."

 _Christ_ , his voice is shot to hell.

"Then it's quite fortunate that I don't particularly care about your opinion." The man's voice is dry, accented- German, maybe, or Russian. "Do you know why you are here?"

"An autograph? A sex tape? An autographed sex tape?"

There's a chuckle.

"Hardly. Though, I will admit that my superiors are fans of your work. Stark Industries has always made some of the most... _elegant_ weapons."

Of course, _of fucking course,_ that's what this is about. 

"Let me spare you the lengthy monologue, Hans Gruber. I'm not building you shit."

"I think you'll find that we can be quite persuasive when given the chance," the man replies, smooth as silk. "With time, I'm sure you'll come to see it our way."

"That didn't work out so well for the last guys, and they tried asking nicely. If you're looking for a repeat performance, pal, I'd be _thrilled_ to oblige."

"Ah, yes, the Ten Rings. Charming, weren't they? A bit too, well, _indelicate_ for my tastes, but they did get the job done." The man sounds amused. "They got you here." 

There's _something_ there, hidden underneath those words, that ignites a coil of fear in the pit of his stomach. _Run_ , that voice whispers again.

There's the sound of a stool scraping against the floor, and suddenly Tony is eye level with his captor. The man is old, probably in his seventies, bald and myopic. He's wearing a tweed blazer and a cheerful plaid shirt, both of which Tony can't help but find personally offensive.

"Where are my manners? With all of this banter, I've neglected to tell you my name." He smiles, and it looks _wrong_ on his face.

"I'm Doctor Fennhoff. I'll be in charge of your treatment for the next few months."

◢✥◣       

When Fennhoff says 'treatment', what he means is 'torture'. Tony's a genius; he gets the idea pretty quickly.

His cell is roughly the size of a walk in closet- and, like, not even one of _his_ walk in closets- complete with all the standard amenities: steel walls, stained mattress on the floor, bucket to piss in.

The cave had been downright _cozy_ in comparison. How's that for Stockholm syndrome?

They kick the shit out of him first, which is, honestly, pretty standard at this point. Two guys, sometimes three, at irregular intervals. One holds his arms back, the other goes to town. The damage is never life threatening, but it's not exactly a walk in the goddamn park.

They never say a word, and that's the most frustrating thing. No questions, no demands. They come in, hurt him a little more, and leave.

Once, he manages to nab one of them with a garrotte he's fashioned from a length of mattress coil. The guy doesn't die, and the second guard slams Tony's head against the wall until he passes out.

He thinks: _worth it_.                         

Tony's arm and ribs have healed, but he's got two broken fingers and a dislocated shoulder. He might be missing a molar.

His bed is gone when he wakes up. 

◢✥◣

 They're drugging him, Tony knows they are, but, hey, what are a few roofies between friends?

◢✥◣

 Fennhoff comes for him one day, just to talk.

 "I hope you're enjoying our accommodations, Mr. Stark," he says. "You're progressing well, although, between you and me, I'm a little disappointed. No daring escape plan?"

Tony's back on the table again.                                 

The back of his throat tastes like blood.

"Truly," Fennhoff sighs. He reaches down to lay a palm over the reactor, and this,  _this_ , Tony hates more than anything. Hates the way his heart jumps in his chest, the way he can't stop himself from flinching.

The doctor chuckles, withdrawing his hand to pat Tony's cheek. "I expected better." 

"I'm going to kill you," Tony whispers, and he means it, down to his fucking core.

"There are worse things than death, Mr. Stark. You of all people should know."

◢✥◣

Tony wakes up, and they beat him. He wakes up, and they drug him.

They starve him, mock him, make him bleed.

The message is clear: _your body is not your own_.

◢✥◣

It's dark, pitch black, when he wakes.

It's an unnatural kind of darkness, dwarfing the minute glow of the reactor easily. The room itself must be reinforced with some kind of industrial level soundproofing, because Tony can't hear _anything_ , can barely hear his the sound of his own voice.

 _Sensory deprivation_ , his mind whispers.

It's like being underwater without drowning.

So Tony sits, blind, and thinks, because that's the one thing he's always been good at.

Flight propulsion systems, code updates, ideas for satellites and metal alloys. He designs weapons in his head, breaks them down, hates himself for it. He recites numbers and formulas, differential calculus and fluid mechanics becoming a jumbled mess of numbers under his breath.

He retreats into himself after a while, trying, desperately, to hold on to Pepper, to Rhodey, to Obie. The room eats at him, reduces his senses down to scraps and echoes of feeling.

Time passes. There's _nothing_ , there's no one.

This is a fight, and he thinks he might be losing.

◢✥◣

He's a wreck when they finally drag him out, starved and stumbling into the harsh light. It's too much, the sound, the light, and Tony can barely stand.

 _Move_ , his mind says, when they shove him into the room with the table, but he can't- _doesn't_ \- fight when they strap him down again.

"You're looking well, Mr. Stark."

The man. Fennhoff. Tony keeps his eyes closed. He feels like he's floating, locked out of his own body.

There's the sound of a turning page, a hum.

"Your vitals are surprisingly stable, which is a relief. Physical resilience, mental fortitude- all within excellent parameters for Stage Two. I'll admit, I had my doubts about your candidacy for this program, but, once again, you've managed to impress."

"What do you want?" Tony rasps, and then there's a hand on his face, cradling his jaw. The touch _burns_.

"I want _you_ , Stark. Not to build, not to create, but to _break_."

"Go to hell."

The grip turns sharp, and Tony sucks in a short breath, eyes opening to meet Fennhoff's gaze. His vision swims, his head pounds.

"Still fighting, are we? Even with nothing left to hold on to. Admirable." Fennhoff leans down, and they're almost nose-to-nose. "The entire world thinks you're _dead_ , Stark. No one is coming for you."

Tony jerks his head away.

The doctor continues after a moment, tone conversational. "I've devoted my life to the study of psychology, you know. Revenge, ambition- they're such quaint motivators. It's amazing, really, how short-sighted people can be."

"For all his care in orchestrating your demise, Obadiah Stane never took the time to consider exactly who he was dealing with."

And that, _that_ , gets his attention.

Fennhoff must see the alarm in his eyes, because he laughs.

"Come now, Stark, surely someone of your intellect must have seen this coming," he says. "Stane has been dealing under the table for _decades_ while you were off binge-drinking and whoring yourself out."

The pieces slot before he can stop them- the demonstration, the ransom, every _I'm proud of you, kid_.

"You handed him an entire empire on a silver platter, trusted him because- what, he was your _friend?_ Your _father figure_? How quaint."

But this is _Obie_ , and Fennhoff is _lying_ , he has to be. Obie he wouldn't, _couldn't-_

"It's a pity he never cared to check just where his clients were getting their funding. I would have asked for more money."

_No._

Betrayal slams into him, knocks the air clean from his lungs in a single blow. This is _worse_ , worse than his mother's death, worse than a chest full of fucking shrapnel, and Fennhoff knows it.

"Do you know where you are, Mr. Stark? Have you figured it out yet?"

Tony wants to hit something, wants, more than anything, to make this motherfucker  _bleed._ He struggles, body arching off the table with what little energy he can muster. Rage keeps him moving, even as Fennhoff clicks his fingers and two guards come scurrying into the room.

"Prep him. Stage Two begins in an hour."

And then they're pushing him down again, strapping restraints across his chest, his waist, his legs. He tosses his head, tries to bite at the hands that grip his hair, gags when someone shoves a piece of rubber in his mouth.

Through it all, Fennhoff leans down, whispers right in his ear.

"Welcome to HYDRA, Tony Stark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback & concrit always welcome
> 
> talk to me on [tumblr](https://ventrie.tumblr.com)


	2. control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which tony gets an upgrade and then gets his brain put in a blender.
> 
> thank you all for your lovely comments! this story is gonna be Long, partially because i love hurting tony and partially because the plot i have laid out is _spectacularly_ complicated.
> 
> bear with me, folks.

Tony's dreaming. He knows he's dreaming, because his father's there, and Howard Stark has been dead for almost ten years.

"You always were a smart boy," his dad says. "How did you let this happen, son?"

Typical fucking Howard.

"How did let _what_ happen? I didn't do anything."

Howard smiles, and it's terrible. "Exactly," he says, gesturing. "Look around you."

Tony does, and it's like something out of a nightmare. Bodies strewn on the ground, mothers and children clutching each other with vacant eyes. There are soldiers bleeding at his feet, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air.

He bends down to one of them, trying to desperately apply pressure to an unseen wound. There's blood on his hands, on his clothes, and the soldier chokes out a soft cry.

"Tony," he whispers, letting out a wet sounding cough. Tony knows that voice.

"Rhodey?" He says, frantic, like it could be anyone else. "Just hold on, buddy, we're gonna get you out of here. Stay with me, GI Joe, come on-"

"How did you let this happen, Tony?" Rhodey says, and Tony can't breathe, can't move.

"I didn't-" he begins. It doesn't matter. In the swift slide from one moment to the next, Rhodey's _gone_.

Tony pulls himself up, runs- everywhere he looks, there are more bodies, more death. He doesn't remember stumbling, falling to his knees, but when he looks up, there's a hand on his shoulder.

Pepper, somehow immaculate despite the carnage, smiles down at him.

"Pep? Jesus, thank god you're okay. We need to get out of here, we need to-"

"Tony," she says, and then he sees the blood on her chest, slowly seeping through her blouse. She stumbles forward, and Tony catches her before she can hit the ground.

"How could you let this happen, Tony?" She says, and there are tears in her eyes, wet and real as he strokes her face. "You killed me."

"Pepper, I didn't- I couldn't-" he starts, the words fractured. "Pepper, _please_ , I-"

She's dead before he can finish.

There are people all around him: Yinsen, his mother, his high school sweetheart. Happy's there, lifeless next to Jarvis and a hundred others. They pile up, higher and higher, and this is his fault, this is _his fault_.

Tony wakes up screaming.

He doesn't stop.

◢✥◣

There's ice in his veins.

He's being cut open, dissected, reassembled from the inside out. His skin is on _fire_ , every nerve in his body torn to pieces.

There's no relief, no opportunity to sink into unconsciousness. The cold chases every rational thought from his head, and Tony can't think, can't _breathe-_

He doesn't die.

Time stretches on.

◢✥◣

_"-successful integration. The subject should be regaining consciousness soon-"_

_"-vitals are stable, no sign of permanent internal damage-"_

Tony stirs, feeble urgency clawing at the back of his mind. It takes a long moment for things to swim into focus.

Table. Metal. Lights. He's strapped down but upright now, angled towards the door. There are needles in his arms, electrodes taped to his chest and head.

God, it's so _bright_.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," a voice says cheerfully. It's Fennhoff, clad in a lab coat and truly hideous paisley tie. "It was touch and go there for a minute, but you handled treatment wonderfully."

"What... what did you do to me?"

Fennhoff smiles. "See for yourself."

A mirror is pulled out, and Tony stares at the stranger there. The stranger stares back.

He looks _young_ , honestly, maybe in his mid-twenties, and that's the most startling thing. Tony hadn't looked like this at twenty-five- he'd been in the middle of a third PhD back then, underfed and tragically baby-faced.

The man's hair is long, falling below his ears in a greasy, unruly mop of curls. Harsh light paints his skin a sickly shade of olive; under a thin sheen of sweat, well-defined muscles stretch taut against restraints. The man is lithe instead of bulky, built for speed rather than strength alone.

This isn't him. It _is_ him- the same dark eyes, the same stubborn chin- but it's not.

The man in the mirror is some wild, feral thing, and Tony _hates_ him, hates him in a way he's never hated his own reflection before.

The man doesn't look like Tony. He looks like a weapon.

 _Fuck_ , they _changed_ him, took his body and carved him out of it. Anger gives way to grief all at once, and it's like a body blow. The sense of loss is thick and cloying, curling in his stomach.

 _Your body is not your own_.

He can't help the quiet sob that leaves his lips.

"Quite the improvement, no?" Fennhoff asks, delighted, patting his shoulder. Tony recoils at the touch, instinctively trying to pull away.

And then, something strange happens: his restraints shift.

It's trick of the light, it has to be, or maybe a sign that he's finally gone over the goddamn deep end. Just to be sure, he takes a deep breath and flexes again. The metal bends ever so slightly with the movement.

 _Huh_. That's new.                                                                  

"There are tests to run before we proceed, but I'm quite pleased with your progress," the doctor continues. "Stage Three is a delicate process- we need to be certain you'll be able to cope with the next procedure. Mind-body health is no laughing matter, after all."

 _Move_ , his mind urges, his pulse pounds, and he does.

Tony throws his body forward, and metal groans as he wrenches an arm free. Wrestling out of the other restraints is easy; as they buckle, he yanks the needle from his arm and rolls to his feet. Equipment scatters everywhere as Fennhoff jumps back, but Tony's _fast_ , faster than he's ever been. He grabs the doctor by the throat and slams him against the wall before he can say a word.

"You," he says, voice low. "Are going to get me the _hell_ out of here."

Fennhoff's throat works against his grip. There's _fear_ in his eyes, and Tony's the one who put it there.

" _Look at you_ ," he wheezes. " _Beautiful_."

There's a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. Tony doesn't think, doesn't need to.

He whirls, bringing one arm out to catch the man behind him full across the face. The guy drops, neck at an odd angle, and Tony stumbles as another guard tackles him from behind, kicking out his legs.

He falls to his knees, hard, and throws his weight back. Whoever's behind him collides with the wall with a sickening _crack_. He scrambles up, chest heaving as he advances on Fennhoff once more.

The doctor makes a break for the door just as it's flung open. Guards file in, and everything slows down. Tony's been in fights before, boxing matches and high school bullies and brawls outside of bars, but it's nothing like this.

His senses are on _overload_ , driven by a cocktail of instinct and adrenaline. He barrels forward, snapping an elbow into the face of the first man within reach. He grapples another, throws wild punches, bashes someone's head into the floor.

There's more coming, though, he can hear it, can practically see the odds dwindling as they pour into the room. One of them manages to jab a taser into his neck; the force of it is enough to make his knees give out. He fights the entire way down, snarling fists and uncoordinated feet.

Tony fights, even as a needle slides into his neck, a voice in the back of his mind chanting _survive, survive, survive_.

◢✥◣

He wakes up strapped to a chair. There are restraints keeping his head in place. Around him, machines hum, the sound interspersed only by low voices and a steady beep that Tony can only assume is a heart monitor.

He keeps his eyes shut, feigning sleep as long as he can.

"I know you're awake, Stark."

Fennhoff.

His eyes snap open.

"That was quite the show earlier. You killed three men with your bare hands. It took another six to keep you down," the doctor remarks. "A minor miscalculation on my part, I'll admit, but quite worth seeing the full effect of the treatment."

Three men. Tony feels sick. Fennhoff's neck is mottled with bruises the shape of his hand.

"That's enough of all that, though," he continues. "The next step is easy- all you need to do is listen."

" _Fuck off_ ," Tony grits out.

"Come now, Stark." Fennhoff's in his ear, voice silky, breath warm against his neck. Tony tries to jerk away, but there's nowhere to go.

"Aren't you tired of this?" He asks. The timbre of his voice _shifts_ somehow, low and magnetic. Soothing. "All the fighting, all the violence. You've suffered so much."

"You did this," he gasps. " _You_."

"You're tired," the doctor murmurs, barely above a whisper, and Tony _is_ , he's _exhausted_. "You're tired, aren't you? This pain can stop, Tony. Just listen to the sound of my voice."

"I-" Tony starts, but the words aren't coming. Fennhoff's voice is like syrup, tangling his thoughts into knots.

"That's it. You're doing well," he coaxes. "Just let go. Think back to the last time you felt safe. Can you remember?"

 _Don't_ , something in him seems to cry, but it's no use.

Unbidden, his eyes slip closed, mind straying to-

_Pepper, handing him a cup of coffee, giving him a private little grin as he takes it from her without a second thought._

_"Will that be all, Mr. Stark?" She asks. Tony Stark is not an introspective man, but in that fleeting moment, he's floored by the realization that he trusts this woman, Pepper Potts, more than he's ever trusted anyone since-_

_Rhodey, who's lounging on the couch in their first apartment. They had fought earlier that day, one of those stupid, blowout fights. Lines had been crossed, and Tony's half expecting the place to be empty when he steps through the door._

_"Hey, man. I picked up dinner, pierogi from that place up in Somerville that you won't shut up about."_

_It's not a big deal, except that it kind of is. He's never been good at keeping people around, has never bothered with reading between the lines. This way, at least he's never disappointed._

_Forgiveness tastes like sauerkraut and applesauce, and he hasn't felt like this since-_

_Jarvis, who's sitting at the side of his bed. It's pouring outside, a heady summer storm that shakes the walls and rattles the windows of his childhood home. He's six; too young to really understand why his parents had sent him back to bed when he'd woken them up._

_"Jarvis, I-" Another clap of thunder, and he flinches, eyes welling up. "I'm sorry."_

_"Hush now, little one." Jarvis leans forward, wipes away the tears streaking Tony's face with a careful thumb. Gently, as though he's something precious, he gathers Tony into his arms, lets him cling and tremble as the storm wears on._

_"Nothing can hurt you here, Master Stark. I've got you."_

 

Tony surfaces gradually, and it's like waking up from a long nap. His body feels light, and he's comfortable, submerged in a warm glow with only a vague impression of unease. He remembers being upset, but can't remember why.

He doesn't have the energy to care.

"Episodic frequencies have been successfully localized, Doctor," a voice says. A woman. She sounds far away. "Mapping of the neural matrix at 47.2% completion."

"Excellent," someone else replies. _Doctor._ Something in him stirs at that, whispers _bad_ , whispers, _run_.

His eyes flutter, and the voice is in his ear again.

"Well done, we're nearly there. Isn't it nice to not have to think?"

It _is_ nice, although Tony can't help but feel like something's _wrong_ , that's there's something he needs to _do_ -

"No, no, none of that. _Relax_ ," the voice says, honey-sweet, and he does. "That's better. You've earned this. No more suffering."

No more suffering. Was he suffering? He can't remember.

"Now, this is the important part. You're good at building things, aren't you? Think back on your work, on your creations. What does that feel like?"

Again, he slips under, and it's easy this time. He casts his mind back, flitting to-

_His first circuit board, clumsy fingers manipulating wire. He's excited because it works, it really works. It's exhilarating, this feeling, and he wants to chase it for as long as he can. His Dad's going to be so proud-_

_His last year at MIT, and he's seventeen, partially wedged under the strut of a mechanical arm. He's running on fumes at this point, but this has to work, he's poured too many hours into this stupid project for it to not._

_Last relay connected, Tony straightens and inputs the start up code. It's taking forever, and, damn it, Howard was right, this is ridiculous, the code is too complex. Building a functional AI is a fucking pipe dream._

_The arm chirps, slowly moves to place its claw on the top of his head, and Tony could fucking cry-_

_Guns, missiles, plans for jets that break the sound barrier a dozen times over. Bulletproof vests and bombs- they're all there, in the back of his head. He creates and recreates, setting records just to break them for the hell of it. He laughs in the face of the laws of physics and takes the world by storm._

_He flies, doesn't ever, ever think about falling-_

_Shaky hands welding together pieces of armor. The back of his mouth is gritty, tastes like bile and sand, but the numbers are right. He checks and double-checks the math until it all blurs together. Power output, hydraulics systems, the promise of freedom just out of reach._

_Underneath his shirt, the reactor glows. His greatest creation._

_If this is the last goddamn weapon he ever builds, he's going to make sure it's a good one._

Tony comes back to himself in waves.

"Semantic and procedural networks have been isolated. Neural map is complete."

"Lovely. Make sure to calibrate around eidetic function, targeting only long-term sensory mechanisms within the existing framework."

Chair. Lights. Fennhoff. _Hypnosis_ , he thinks, but that can't be right.

"Calibration complete, Doctor. Data indicates only a two percent risk of sustained cognitive damage."

"Well, I suppose that's as good as it's going to get. Prep the machine, if you would?"

Tony doesn't want to wake up.

◢✥◣

This is how they break him:

"Let's start with the basics. What is your name?"

He stays quiet, eyes locked on a point far across the room. There's silence, and then a gloved fist is driven into his stomach.

"Tony," he gasps. "Tony Stark."

"Good," Fennhoff says, making a note on his clipboard. He looks up and addresses someone over Tony's shoulder. "Begin conditioning sequence alpha, ten percent power."

There's a click, then a hum, and then his brain is on _fire_. Electricity arcs through his head, down his spine, and he barely has time to choke out a scream before it's over.

"What is your name?"

"Tony Stark," he says. His mouth tastes like ozone.

"Again."

Over and over, and the world falls away until there's nothing but this, the sing of static under his skin and the pulse of light in his head.

"What is your name?"

"Tony Stark."

"Again."

 _Iron_.

"What is your name?"

"Tony Stark."

"Again."

_Desert._

"What is your name?"

"Stark."

"Again."

_Seven._

"Again."

_Yearning._

"Again."

_Quiet._

"Again."

_Blue._

"What is your name?"

He reaches for an answer. He has a name, he must have a name, _everyone_ has a name.

"I... don't know."

There's a hand on his face, a man smiling down at him.

" _Good_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback and concrit always welcome
> 
> yell at me on [tumblr](https://ventrie.tumblr.com)


	3. machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which six gets his ass kicked and the winter soldier makes an appearance.
> 
> oh, my sweet prince, how i love making you suffer. this is the last chapter of, like, true hydra torture porn. we're gonna veer into something vaguely resembling a plot real soon, pinky promise.
> 
> tw for a _super_ brief rape mention at the end.

They tell him to sleep, and he does. They tell him to eat, and he does.

The food doesn't have a taste. He thinks maybe it's supposed to, but they hurt him when he says things like that. They tell him _shut up_ and _don't think_. Compliance is rewarded.

So he shuts up. He doesn't think.

Or he tries to, anyway. The feeling that something's _missing_ digs its way under his skin, buzzes in the back of his head. He can't shake the feeling that it's important.

◢✥◣

He's in the chair. The chair hurts his head, makes the world go white around the edges.

He's not supposed to hate things, but he  _hates_ the chair.

In the chair, they keep his head still, attach wires to his temples, and make him watch movies. The movies tell him that the world is rotting from the inside out, that HYDRA is its only salvation.

HYDRA provides safety, provides balance.

All HYDRA requires in return is loyalty.

In the chair, the doctor asks questions, questions like _where were you born_ and _what is your mother's name_. These are questions that should have answers; he knows that, but he doesn't have the words to articulate the feeling of soft wool or the smell of concrete in the rain.

In the chair, they give him a pad of paper and a pencil, tell him to _solve this_ and _fix that_. The numbers are easy because he doesn't have to think about them. They doesn't hurt him when he's right.

After these sessions, the doctor says words- _iron desert seven yearning quiet blue_ \- and shows him pictures- _a flightless bird, a decaying corpse, a basement splattered with blood_.

They hurt him more when he closes his eyes, so he learns to keep them open.

"You are part of an important group," the doctor says one day, and this is how he comes to know of the others.

There were nine, but two weren't strong enough, so now there are only seven. They are important because they are useful. They are specialists, scientists and doctors, powerful assets that will make HYDRA strong.

He is number six. They tell him that he is an engineer.

It feels _right_ , somehow.                                       

◢✥◣

There is a star in his chest. They take it out sometimes, strap him down and run tests until his heart seizes up.

He is told that it is essential to his function.

It pains him, this star, in a way that makes his lungs ache with every breath. His ribs throb when he lies down, scarred tissue around the metal protesting the stubborn rise of his chest.

He hasn't seen anyone else with a star like his. He wonders who put it there, if not HYDRA. Is everyone born with electricity humming in their veins?

The blue light keeps him awake at night.

He doesn't sleep much, anyway.

◢✥◣

The seven of them are lined up against a wall, in a well-lit room with a black mat in the middle. Four men guard the only door, rifles held aloft.

They are divided into pairs- One and Two, Three and Four, Five and Six- and told to face each other. Five is a woman, petite but muscular, perhaps a head shorter than him. She has amber eyes and dark hair cropped close to her head.

Six chances a look at her chest when the guard turns his back- no star.

The one left without a partner, Seven, stands in the center of the mat and waits for instruction. He is tall, thin, with a shock of orange hair. He looks delicate. Breakable.

The door opens to reveal another man, two guards on his heels.

This man moves across the room with purpose, with _intent_ , carrying himself like a loaded gun. Every inch of him, from the hard lines of his silhouette to the gleaming metal of his left arm, screams _threat_.

Automatically, Six finds himself considering things like _efferent neuron potential thresholds_ and _torsional strain_. There are at least four possible ways to increase reflex speed without damaging performance. He picks apart obvious faults in the plating, in the joint structure, in the interface between body and prosthetic.

The arm _fascinates_ him, for reasons he can't quite explain.

"This is the Soldier," their handler tells them. "Do as he does. Failure will not be tolerated."

The Soldier is efficient. The Soldier is ruthless. The Soldier disarms Seven in a matter of seconds and throws him to the mat hard enough to break his jaw.

They copy the techniques they are shown until they are bruised and bloodied and their handler says _enough_. Five does not pull her punches.

In this way, they learn where to hit in order to render an opponent immobile and how to snap a neck without making a sound. The Soldier teaches them how to fight with knives, how to shoot, how to turn an ordinary object into a weapon.

Today, it is his turn on the mat.

Six is a fast learner and has been trained well, but he is a mouse going toe to toe with a lion. The Soldier has him on his back in under a minute, and he's forced to roll to the side at the last second to avoid a blow to the head.

There's a hand around his throat now, pinning him to the floor.

Predictable, he's being _predictable_ , using what the Soldier has taught him.

With that in mind, Six shoves back as hard as he can. The grip doesn't loosen, but it does give him the split second that he requires. He wraps a hand around the Soldier's metal wrist, bends his knees, and attempts to flip him over one shoulder.

It's a simple move, something they learned on one of their very first days.

The Soldier is expecting it.

What he _isn't_ expecting is a hard elbow to the solar plexus.

The Soldier doubles over and then Six is up in an instant, aiming a kick at the other man's abdomen. From the ground, the Soldier grabs his foot and _pulls_ , knocking him off balance.

The fight ends with Six on the mat, nursing a dislocated shoulder and a broken nose.

He amends his previous analysis. The Soldier is _deadly_.

◢✥◣

They tell him to build is a rifle, and he does. The pieces are familiar, falling together easily. It's like breathing- his body knows what to do, even if his mind doesn't.

He takes it apart once he's done. The design isn't flawed, exactly, because the product is perfectly functional, but there are a hundred different ways it can be improved and _he can do better_.

So he builds upon the schematic they've given him, formats the grip so that the kickback is barely noticeable. He refines the efficiency of the muzzle flash dampener and adjusts the laser sight so that its frequency is only visible with a special type of glasses.

They don't tell him to do this, not exactly, but the doctor seems pleased when he's done.

Producing satisfactory results, he soon figures out, is the best way to avoid punishment. Any alternative is unacceptable.

◢✥◣

"Today," their handler says, "You will each fight the Soldier. If you fail to incapacitate him, you will die."

One is wiry man with blond hair and green eyes. He takes his place on the mat first, facing the Soldier. There is no trepidation on his face- he is not that stupid.

This much is clear: under orders not to kill, the Soldier had been holding back during training.

He has no such limitations now.

The fight is brutal. The Soldier is strong, but One is fast, ducking and weaving just out of reach. The blows he gets in are calculated; a well-aimed fist to the kidney, a heel of the hand to the larynx.

The Soldier ends up on his front with a boot to the back of his neck and One above him, panting from exertion.

"Enough. Next."

And so it goes. Two is a tall, dark-skinned woman who wrestles the Soldier to the ground and wraps her long legs around his throat. Three, a broad man with a flat, haughty face, lands a kick powerful enough to send the Soldier flying across the room.

Four is the first casualty. He sweeps a leg under the Soldier in an attempt to take him off balance. It works, but he's a second too slow. The Soldier doesn't waste time- in the blink of an eye, he's flipping Four over his shoulder and driving a metal fist _down_.

Even without the curious sound of Four's sternum splintering in his chest, Six knows that he's dead.

There are some things you just can't walk away from.

"Clean this up," their handler says, sounding bored, and two guards step forward to drag the body away.

Five survives, but only just. By the time the fight is over, she has blood dripping from one ear and her arm is badly broken, hanging limply at her side.

Six steps up, and the Soldier has him on the defensive almost immediately. He's on the ground and back up in an instant, launching himself forward. The Soldier is a whirlwind, a machine, and he doesn't _stay down_.

He considers the variables. The Soldier has more experience and relies on a combination of brute force and quick thinking. He's taller, heavier, but the real threat is his arm.

The others succeeded because they played to their strengths. The Soldier may be faster and stronger, but Six is _smarter_.

His mouth tastes like copper.

Rolling up from a crouch, he casts his eyes around the room, looking for something, _anything_ , and- there. _Good_.

Numbers- _projectile motion, momentum, mechanical force_ \- fly through his mind, faster than he can comprehend, and Six keeps low, stays just out of reach until he's on the edge of the mat. He sees the roundhouse kick coming and lets it catch him full in the face, throwing him backwards and into a corner.

The impact makes him see stars. Pain- from his jaw, from his back- spikes through his body, but he ignores it, swallows it down just in time to duck.

Instead of connecting with Six's head, the Soldier's metal arm goes straight through the wall. Six is close enough to catch the flash of surprise on the other man's face when he realizes that his hand is now wedged between two heating pipes.

The Soldier jerks back once, twice, and that's when Six _moves_.

He slams a fist across the Soldier's face, follows with a swift uppercut to the stomach. The Soldier, arm stuck halfway in the wall, rears back, grabs a fistful of his hair and slams his head into the ground. He twists, throws an elbow into the Soldier's groin and scrambles up when the hold is released.

On his feet, Six doesn't hesitate, just braces one foot on the ground and throws his weight down, stomping on the outstretched elbow joint of the Soldier's arm with all the force he can muster.

There's sound of metal splintering, the sound of a choked off howl.

"Enough. Next."

Six steps back into line, ears ringing, as the Soldier extracts himself. He gives no indication of pain, but the arm whirs and clicks as he bends it, the movements just a fraction delayed.

Seven takes his place, and there is fear in his eyes. He is stupid, _weak_.

The Soldier moves. Seven is dead before he hits the ground.

◢✥◣

Later, they take him outside.

It's unpleasant- cold and barren and empty. The wind stings at his skin, makes his eyes tear and the star in his chest twinge. He ignores it.

Discomfort is irrelevant.

Two guards walk him around the perimeter of the facility, following an iced-over path until it reaches a small shed. Inside, there are three men with guns and a woman on her knees. Her hands are bound behind her back and her mouth is taped shut.

This woman, they tell him, is a traitor to HYDRA. They tell him that she was caught selling secrets to the enemy. They give him a gun, tell him _shoot her_.

He takes the gun, aims, and wonders: _how much does a secret cost?_

The woman's eyes are wide and glossy with unshed tears. Her eyes are blue, they're _blue_ , and her hair is strawberry blonde, dirty and falling past her shoulders. She looks at him and he thinks-

He thinks-

_The smell of perfume and the soft click of high heels on tile. Quiet laughter and the taste of liquorice._

His finger's on the trigger and they tell him to _shoot_ , but the woman has strawberry blonde hair and there's white noise roaring in his ears-

_Delicate hands, wet ink on paper, a gentle smile. The feeling of holding something breakable close to his heart, the certainty that it is worth protecting._

He staggers, clutching at his head. The gun clatters from his hand.

They're on him at once, wrenching his arms back, and he doesn't fight it, even though he could, even though something tells him that he _should_. A guard drives a knee into his stomach; the pain is insignificant compared to the pounding behind his eyes.

The ground has been stolen from beneath his feet.

"Take him to Fennhoff," someone says.

 _Look away_ , a voice in the back of his head whispers, but he can't. They make him watch.

Two gunshots. _Bang, bang._

The blood pools at his feet.

◢✥◣

This what his world becomes: chair, _pain_ , a voice telling him to _comply_. They deprive him of food, of water; they break his bones one by one just to see how long it takes him to heal. He is locked in a room devoid of light and sound, and they laugh when he comes out, blind and weak.

They _touch_ him, sometimes, strip him down and _take_ until he's bruised, inside and out _._

They are punishing him, he knows, but he can't remember _why_.

The doctor shows videos with no sound- _dead children, a forest fire, a naked woman caught in a wordless scream_ \- and sets his brain alight, whispers the words in his ear until he heaves and trembles.

 _What are you_ , the doctor asks, and he doesn't know, _he doesn't know_.

And over and over, they hollow out his body, make him build, fight, bleed.

The doctor tells him: _you are a tool, you are HYDRA's guiding hands._

The doctor tells him: _you are not a human being_.

He forgets everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback, concrit, & unintelligible yelling always welcome
> 
> i'm here on [tumblr](https://ventrie.tumblr.com)


	4. down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which HYDRA is up to absolutely no good, and our two favorite automatons bond over murder.
> 
> the speed at which this updates is incredibly indicative of how desperately i'm trying to avoid my Real Life.
> 
> also, y'all didn't think i was gonna deprive you of the 'arm maintenance' trope, did you? i'm not, like, _that_ mean

Six dreams, sometimes, of explosions and _heat_ , of a warm, calloused hand on the back of his neck. There is the smell of pine, sweet and sticky, and the feel of cool metal under his palms. He dreams of _voices_ , low and urgent, whispering a name he cannot hear.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, filled with an _ache_ that he does his best to forget.

They bring him to a room one day, and there is a man with a metal arm strapped down to a chair. Something in the back of his mind stirs in recognition.

"The Soldier's arm requires maintenance," his handler informs him. "You break it, you bought it."

What a strange phrase. Six repeats it in his head: _you break it, you bought it_. Had he broken it, or had he bought it? The Soldier does not look broken, nor does he look like something that can be bought.

Shaking the thought from his head, he sits, pries open the panel on the upper arm, and sets to work. Inside is a complex mess of machinery and wire, a corroded transhumeral socket, bits and pieces of metal soldered and re-soldered together. The problem becomes more apparent as he moves his way down. Something- or _someone_ \- has crushed the arm, hard enough to warp the framework and knock half a dozen relays out of place. The loose wires are exposed, brushing up against the hinge of the joint.

 _Inefficient_ , he thinks, and, in all likelihood, painful.

The Soldier has given no indication of such pain, but first thing Six does is disconnect the nociceptor terminals clustered just above the elbow, where most of the damage is localized. It is minor act of disobedience, as he was not strictly instructed to ensure the Soldier's comfort.

He, very deliberately, does not think about why he does this.

The work is slow. Six is as careful as he can be, fingers poking and prodding along the internal circuitry of the arm. He replaces burnt-out relays and the bent support struts, ignoring the sparks that singe his fingertips from time to time.

He is _gentle_ , perhaps, or he tries to be, but that word has no place here.

"There," Six says, after what must be hours. His voice is rusty with disuse. "Can you-?"

He flexes his hand, rolls his wrist and bends his elbow back and forth; after a second, the Soldier copies him. It is satisfactory- the movements are smooth now, no clicking or sounds of grinding metal.

"Good," he says, reaching back towards the elbow.

The Soldier jerks back suddenly, and there's a faint trace of _alarm_ in his eyes. Six wants to say _no_ , wants to say _I won't hurt you_ , but he's not sure that this is entirely true. A guard is hurrying forward, so Six works fast, reconnecting the sensory terminals and sliding the panel shut before anyone can notice.

"No pain," he says, softly enough so that only the Soldier can hear him. "See?"

Six stands, ready to be escorted out of the room, when he hears it, the words quiet and faint and meant only for his ears.

"Thank you," the Soldier says.

He leaves, a strange feeling churning in his gut.

◢✥◣

They send him to Prague, to Belmopan, to Turku.

His objectives are simple, straightforward: _steal this_ , _kill them_ , _make sure you are never seen_. He moves through these strange cities like a ghost, transparent and deadly, always deadly.

There are times when he works alone, and times when he doesn't. They send him out with Five, occasionally, or sometimes Three, but, more often than not, it is the Soldier who is a shadow at his side.

They complete missions in Dortmund, in Mumbai, in Paramaribo. They infiltrate foreign governments and extract information, eliminate targets and punish those who refuse to cooperate.

Like this, they carry out HYDRA's mission across the globe.

◢✥◣

This time, they are on a rooftop in Guangzhou, and the Soldier has been staring down the scope of his rifle for nearly two hours. The city is sprawled beneath them, loud and unapologetic and stinking of smog.

Six has already carried out his orders. It had been a relatively simple task: break into the home of a well-known international real estate tycoon, copy the contents of his private server onto a ghost drive. Destroy any evidence.

 _In and out_ , his handler had said.

The man's body will be found face down in the Pearl River tomorrow morning. The police will likely rule his death a suicide.

"You are injured."

The Soldier's voice breaks the silence, startling Six out of his reverie.

Injured? His leg. A small incident, his mark had been armed. He had dug the bullet out some time ago- the wound has long been reduced to a dull throb, bleeding sluggishly through the fabric of his uniform.

He does not know what to say to this. The Soldier has never spoken to him before.

"Yes," he says eventually. He does not recognize the sound of his own voice.

He tries again: "Mission performance has not been compromised."

And then, after a long, tense moment, the Soldier _steps away_ from his post to kneel at Six's side. From his pocket, he withdraws a thick square of fabric. He hovers there, face solemn and unreadable, as if deciding something.

Weapons do not make decisions, and so Six holds his breath, unsure.

This could be a test.

Then again, weapons do not bleed, either. 

Six remains still, more curious than afraid, as the Soldier slowly, _delicately_ , presses the makeshift bandage against his leg. It is strange to see this, he thinks, to see hands built only for violence move with such care. He meets the Soldier's eyes, and there is no anger, no hate there.

There is something clawing at his back of his throat now, ugly and tangled and raw, and he does not- _cannot_ \- understand.

"No pain," the Soldier intones, standing once more. It sounds almost like an order. "See?"

Six sees.

Thirty minutes later, a wealthy Chinese banker is discovered dead in his office, a single shot to the head from nearly a mile away.

They are already halfway to Hanoi.

◢✥◣

By his estimate, Six spends approximately eight days per month performing routine maintenance and upgrades on the Soldier's arm.

So far, he has swapped out the external plating with a lighter, more durable material and rewired the hydraulics to improve its range of motion. He has other ideas, too, ways of fine-tuning sensory input and adjusting the prosthetic interface at the shoulder to reduce pain. He doubts that his handler would take kindly to such suggestions.

He has also gotten into the habit of narrating everything he does during these sessions, voice pitched barely above a whisper. Speaking out loud, out of turn, is forbidden, but this small infraction helps him focus.

He tells himself that it has nothing to do with the way the Soldier seems almost _at ease_ during these little monologues.

◢✥◣

"You don't have to do that," the Soldier informs him one day. "When you fix me. It. You don't have to talk."

They are in Miami, awaiting retrieval in a garbage-strewn alleyway behind a nightclub. Somewhere across the city, two CIA agents are dead.

The air is humid, pungent with the smell of salt and stale beer; hazy and thick from the cigarettes they smoke one by one. He can hear the steady _thump_ of the music inside, above that, the sound of glass tinkling and girls laughing as they pass.

Inhale, exhale. The smoke curls in the air.  _To blend in_ , his handler had said.

"I know," Six replies.

And that's all that needs to be said. 

◢✥◣

They tell him to design a ship that can fly.

Ships aren't supposed to fly, of course, they're supposed to float, but Six doesn't say that to his handler. The dreams aren't going away, not at all- _honeysuckle, sauerkraut, the flash of bright teeth against dark skin_ \- and the threat of the chair looms in his mind like a living thing.

So he pores over theories on thrust vector control and interference drag, works and re-works the math until it fits. They bring Five in, and she works alongside him, piecing together navigation systems and computer interfaces. The primary issue is the power source: something as large as this craft requires an incredible amount of energy to lift off the ground, never mind achieve sustainable flight.

He brings this up to his handler only once.

"That," the man says with distaste, sparing a quick glance down at the star in Six's chest. "Is none of your concern."

The designs are complete in four months, the prototype in another two.

 _The Helicarrier_ , they call it.

◢✥◣

Minsk. November. It's cold outside, sleet battering against a boarded up window, and they're holed up in a drafty apartment somewhere in the outskirts of the Savetski district. They have been instructed to keep watch as their handler snores on the only bed, rifle in a loose grip across his lap.

They are settled on the floor, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, a cautious kind of almost-touch.

The dreams- _tea leaves, wood polish, a lullaby_ \- have been getting worse, scraping the surface of his mind in a way that leaves him with a constant headache. This sense of loss has made itself at home deep in his bones.

He can't sleep.

"Do you remember?"

The words, nearly inaudible, are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. The Soldier does not look at him, does not answer for a long moment.

"No," he says, just as quiet. "There is- there is nothing to remember."

Six nods, eyes locked on the door. He tries to ignore the way that the Soldier's response sounds more like a question than an answer.

Instead, he thinks about _brilliant blue light, sun on his skin, the feeling of coming home_. He thinks about the meaning of pain, about the weight of a gun in his hand, about each and every way he could kill their handler in his sleep. He keeps gaze straight ahead and _thinks_ because, in this moment, there is no one to tell him not to.

The Soldier's arm presses against his, flesh and blood to flesh and blood.

It is enough.

◢✥◣

Months follow, and something changes.

There are no more missions. He is cycled between his cell and the lab and the chair, where the doctor pries information out of his head until blood drips from his nose and his teeth are coated scarlet.

He hears the whispers, though, of _Captain America_ and _New York_ , and later, of _SHIELD and Stane Industries_. These things crowd in his head, jostle for attention, but he shoves them down before they can swallow him whole.

He has not seen the Soldier since Minsk, or maybe Aarhus. It is difficult to remember.

They tell him to build, and so he builds until his hands are numb. Knives crafted from titanium alloys and compact, high-powered ammunition capable of leveling an entire city block. He designs satellite networks, spends weeks coding facial recognition software and threat analysis algorithms.

Time marches on, and this is what he knows: HYDRA is preparing for war. 

◢✥◣

They wake him in the dead of night.

This has happened before, but something is different. More men, different rooms. The halls of the compound are barren.

Breaks in routine, he thinks, rarely foster positive outcomes.

They take him to a washroom, first, make him strip before hosing him down with freezing water. The cold bites at his skin and he does not say a word. They allow him to dress, give him three shots in his left arm and a pill that makes him empty the contents of his stomach into a bucket.

Then, he is taken to a bright room with a metal table.

The sight of it is enough to make him recoil. Some distant, guttural part of him _fears_ this room, this place, and that feeling alone drowns out everything else.

Six reels back, mows down two men before four more have the chance to pin him on his stomach. He struggles against the hold, gets a cattle prod to the neck and a steel-toed kick to the stomach for his disobedience.

"Fuckin' told you it was gonna' put up a fight," a guard says. "You owe me, like, a hundred rubles, Mikhail."

"Go to hell, Ilya," says another. "If it pulls this shit again, the Doc said we can tranq it. How's that for your goddamn _hundred rubles_?"

"Ugh, _whatever_. Can't believe they have us pulling overtime for this," the other mutters. "After the all the bullshit that went down in Washington, we'll be lucky to get paid through the month."

Another kick, and then he's being yanked up by the collar, shoved back inside.

They haul him to the back of the room and onto a platform, bypassing the table completely. Tubes and wires dig into his back as they strap restraints over his body. His head is wrenched forward, and someone secures a black, heavy mask across the lower half of his face. It's tight, clamps his mouth shut and makes it hard to breathe.

 _Lights, metal, pain-_ everything is simultaneously foreign and familiar all at once. Six closes his eyes, tries to slow his traitorous heart. He's shaking with some nameless, awful fear, but he _can't stop_.

 _Run_ , a small, far away voice pleads, _run_.

He can't do that either.

"Aw, _look_ ," one of them says. A hand on his jaw tilts his head up in a cruel mockery of a caress. "It's _scared_."

A chorus of crude laughter, a hard punch to the gut, and then the walls are descending around him with a hiss. Fog fills his vision, and it's cold, it's _cold_. It invades every crevice of his body, leaves no room for escape. Black spots dot his vision, but the pain is _still there_ , his one constant, merciless in its entirety. He's being burned alive and frozen solid at the same time.

An agonized scream lodges itself in the back of his throat.

"Sleep tight, princess."

In the cold, the darkness takes him.

He lets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback, concrit, etc. always welcome
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](https://ventrie.tumblr.com)


	5. ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which clint gets kicked in the balls and steve rogers has a headache.
> 
> so, this is the part where i shove canon into a locker and take its lunch money. 
> 
> iron man isn't a thing in this universe. i'm taking liberties with the timeline here, people.
> 
> you've all been warned.

Steve Rogers is having a terrible day.

"Look, Cap, all I'm saying is that you should _think_ about it," Natasha says.

Steve gives her an incredulous look as he slams his shield down. Sparks fly everywhere, and the thing makes this god-awful _keening_ noise as the light beneath its eyes flickers out.

This is the third time in as many months, and he's starting to get a little sick of it.

Each attack has been coordinated, high-tech, and, most importantly, completely anonymous. No one was claiming responsibility, and the media was having a field day: smart appliances come to life, EMP blasts that had left the city without power for weeks, and now _this_ \- a small army of flying robots hell-bent on causing as much property damage as possible.

He kicks the thing one last time for good measure.

 _Robots_. Honestly.

"Nope, no, absolutely not. We are not having this discussion right now."

There's an explosion somewhere in the distance, and they take off after it. Natasha has the gall to look unimpressed.

"When should I pencil you in, then? Tomorrow afternoon, in between 'manly brooding session' number three and 'following Barnes around like a kicked puppy' o'clock?"

She rolls her eyes, vaulting over a fire hydrant to body-check another bot before it can wreak havoc inside a Starbucks. Steve grapples with the second one, taking vicious pleasure in driving it into the asphalt.

"Hilarious, Romanov. Don't quit your day job."

"Sam agrees with me, you know," she points out, and he sighs.

"I know," he says, straightening. It feels like maybe there's motor oil in his hair. "I _know_ Bucky's our only shot, but it's- God, it's been _years_ , Nat. You've seen how far he's come. Dragging him into this, making him relive all the crap he's been through... It's a step backwards."

There's a long pause. Steve feels, as he often does around Natasha, like a bug underneath a microscope.

"Steve," she says, voice laced with just the right amount of concern. "HYDRA's still out there, you know they are. They're not going to stop. James is our best option right now. He's stronger than you think he is."

The _you're not in charge of him_ is left unsaid, but Steve hears it loud and clear. He kind of wants to punch something.

"Fine," he says, voice tight. "But later. We've got incoming."

Steve likes the future just fine, but he could really do without the robots.

◢✥◣

"I'll do it," Bucky says later, over a bowl of reheated Kung Pao chicken.

Steve wants to put his head through a wall.

From across the table, Natasha's stare is piercing, practically daring him to argue. He grits his teeth and stabs at a soggy piece of Moo shu pork instead.

"Good," she says, crossing one leg over the other. "We've already compiled a database of known or suspected HYDRA bases. Some of have been abandoned, some destroyed, but it would help if you went through it to see if there are we've missed."

Bucky nods thoughtfully and takes a swig of beer.

After a long trial following the fiasco in Bucharest, he had been cleared of all charges and offered conditional diplomatic immunity. He's been on parole for the past two years, with weekly therapy appointments, community service, and, above all else, an indefinite ban on all Avengers business.

It's probably the best they could've hoped for, but Steve knows Bucky's been going a little stir-crazy, holed up in their cramped two-bedroom in Red Hook.

"From there, we just need to go down the list," Natasha says. "Stane Industries has already agreed to loan us a plane-"

"Wait, _Stane Industries_?" Steve breaks in. "Tell me we're not affiliated with them."

She shrugs. "Keep your enemies close, Cap. Obadiah Stane is a slimy piece of work, but he was instrumental in negotiating the terms of James' appeal."

"Yeah, so he'd have something over us."

"Someone's always gonna' have something over us, Stevie," Bucky points out. "In my experience, knowing whose thumb you're under is better than flyin' blind."

And, really, what the hell is he supposed to say to that? Steve groans and drags a hand through his hair, looking between the two of them.

It's physically impossible, but he thinks he might feel a migraine coming on.

"I don't like this," he says at last. "I just want you to know that. There's too much at stake, too much we don't know. We could be walking into a trap."

Bucky just grins, lopsided and a little dangerous, and reaches over to grab another beer.

"Think of it this way," he says, opening the bottle against the thumb of his metal hand. "You've never met a trap you didn't like."

Natasha snickers. Steve takes a sip of cheap Russian lager, flicks the bottle cap so that it bounces off the side of her head.

These people are going to be the _death_ of him.

◢✥◣

Three months later, they're flying somewhere over the Leptev Sea.

"So, like, I know we have this whole 'anti-establishment' shtick going right now, but what's your stance on a corporate sponsorship or two? Because, _man_ , Stane's got some sweet digs."

Steve doesn't bother to look up, eyes still glued to the briefing package Natasha had put together.

"Feet off the cockpit, Barton," he sighs. "This is a rental."

"That wasn't a no, I definitely did not hear a no," Clint says, pointedly _not_ moving his feet. "I'm gonna' make sweet, sweet love to this plane."

In the co-pilot's chair, Bucky snorts. "Keep it in your pants, pal. I didn't break international law just to watch you molest some rich asshole's glareshield panel."

They're not breaking international law. Mostly. They're _stretching_ it a little, sure, but this is a commercial jet and not an Avengers mission. Despite, you know, the two Avengers _in the plane_.

If anyone asks, they're all vacationing. Off the coast of Siberia. In the middle of February.

Steve's had worse alibis before.

"Alright, ladies and cyborgs, we're beginning our descent. Please stow your sidearms and keep your tray tables in their upright locked position," Clint says, chipper. "Touching down outside of Nizhneyansk in thirty."

"Your accent is atrocious," Bucky mutters.

Steve doesn't miss the faint flash of apprehension in his eyes.

◢✥◣

This is a place that is not meant to exist.

It's built a bunker, with thick metal walls and low ceilings and a pervasive _chill_ in the air. Steve feels trapped, but it's nothing next to Bucky, who's been on full alert since they landed, tense and quiet at Clint's side.

It's _empty_ here, completely devoid of life, and the _wrongness_ of it is like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach.

"So, anyone else feel like they're gonna pee their pants a little?" Clint asks, poking his head into an empty storage closet. "This place is freaking me out. Remind me what we're looking for, again?"

"Information," Steve says. He eyes the hard line of Bucky's back warily. "Buck, if this is too much for you, you don't have to-"

"It's _fine_ , Steve. I'm fine."

He is very clearly _not_ fine, but Steve knows this isn't the time or the place.

They've made their way through most of the compound, but there's one room at the end of the hall that hasn't been searched yet. Clint spends several fruitless minutes trying to pick the lock before Bucky gets impatient and simply _lifts_ the door off its hinges.

Steve blinks, eyes adjusting to the low light. It looks a little like an operating room inside, white and sterile, with a big metal table sitting in the middle. Six large, industrial tubes line the far side of the wall.

"Okay," Clint says, drawing out the word. His fingers drum along the shaft of his bow. "This ain't creepy at all."

"Steve."

Bucky's standing in front of one of the tubes, a look of poorly concealed panic on his face. Steve's at his side in an instant, Clint closing rank behind him.

"These are cryo tubes," he says, and the steely, distant note in his voice sends a chill down Steve's spine.

"The rest are inactive, but this one-" he gestures to it. "Steve, there's someone _in here_."

◢✥◣

They argue the entire way back.

"I'm telling you, this is a dumb idea," Clint's saying, like he hasn't made his feelings on the subject quite clear enough. He kicks his feet up onto the cockpit and dutifully ignores Steve's patented 'I'm Captain America and I'm Disappointed in You' face.

"It _is_ a dumb idea," Steve agrees. "But seeing how your suggestion was to _shoot him_ , I went with the lesser of two evils."

"Hey, I stand by my plan. My plan has never failed me before."

"Isn't the whole 'shoot first, ask questions later' thing how you ended up in a supermax prison in Belgrade?" Bucky asks mildly.

Some of the color has returned to his cheeks, but Steve is still wrestling with the urge to get up every five seconds to check on him.

"I cannot _believe_ Nat told you about that, Jesus _Christ_. No love here, Barnes, none at all."

There is a tube with a person- a frozen, potentially _murderous_ person- on their plane. Clint's being obnoxious, Bucky's being cagey as hell, and Steve-

Steve definitely, absolutely, has a migraine.

"Any idea how we're gonna get this thing through airport security, by the way? I feel like the TSA has, y'know, _rules_ about human trafficking."

"Sam already called ahead, pulled some strings with the Department of Homeland Security. We should be fine," Steve replies, massaging his temples. "Buck, are you _sure_ you don't have any idea who HYDRA would keep in there?"

"I have ideas," he says slowly. "None of them good."

Somehow, that doesn't make him feel any better.

◢✥◣

Doctor Helen Cho is a very nice woman, who, in Steve's opinion, should probably stop taking his calls.

"I'm sorry again," he says, for what must be at least the tenth time that night. "Bucky vetoed Richards, and I flat out refuse to go to Stane. You're our best option if we want to keep this under wraps."

"I understand the value of discretion, Captain," she says. "This technology is quite advanced. Cryogenic freezing is an involved process, and not one that a human being could generally tolerate."

She pauses. "You and Mr. Barnes are, of course, the exceptions here."

Steve glances over at Bucky, who's seated on a swivel chair and glaring at the tube like it owes him money. He gets like this, sometimes, withdrawn and serious, face carefully blank. It reminds Steve of those terrible few months after DC, when he'd spent most days at war with his own mind.

As if sensing his thoughts, Bucky looks up and gives him a tired little half-smile.

"If whoever's in there is alive," Helen continues. "They've most likely been enhanced in some way."

"Part of the Winter Soldier program?" Steve asks. "I thought none of them survived."

"They didn't. There were others, I think," Bucky says, and he sounds frustrated. "Like me, but not. Crafted for a different purpose, maybe. HYDRA has its fingers in a lot of pies."

Steve really, _really_ , does not like the sound of that.

Clint, silent up until now, pipes up. "So, if whatever murderbot's in there tries to kill us, we're going with my plan, right?"

"We've been over this, Barton. You can't shoot our only lead."

"You take all the fun out of life, Cap. Just let me have this one."

Helen's smile is beginning to look a little strained at the edges.

"In the interest of my grant funding and, you know, general sustained livelihood, I'm going to politely request that we refrain from killing anyone in the lab," she says. "Captain, I think I have all the data I need. We can begin the decompression sequence whenever you're ready."

At Steve's nod, she presses a button and steps away from the computer console. Nothing happens for a minute, and then the pod hisses, latches on the side releasing with a series of ominous thunks.

Shield in one hand, Steve creeps closer, Bucky and Clint just a step behind him.

Inside the tube is a man, and Steve is immediately struck by how _young_ he looks.

He's shirtless and muscular, with curly, unkempt hair coming down to his shoulders. There's a strange light in his chest, blue and eerie. His eyes are closed; were it not for the black mask obscuring the lower half of his face, he would seem almost peaceful.

Beside him, Bucky sucks in a tight breath.

"Steve," he murmurs. "Steve, I _know_ him."

"Oh my God," Helen Cho says. Her expression is stricken, caught somewhere between fear and disbelief. " _So do I_."

◢✥◣

"Tony Stark," Clint says, as if that explains everything.

"Stark?" Steve asks. "As in Howard Stark?"

The man is still unconscious, lying prone on a bio-bed. By Helen's estimate, they have about fifteen minutes until he comes to.

Clint nods. "His son. CEO of what used to be Stark Industries. He was taken hostage twelve years ago by an Afghani terrorist cell in '08; the whole thing got a ton of media attention." He scratches his chin, pensive. "At the time, Stark was the US military's primary weapons contractor- they looked for him for, like, three months or something."

"He was a genius," Helen remarks. "I've collaborated with him in the past. Mr. Stark almost single-handedly financed my research on nano-molecular dermal regeneration, at a time when no one in the scientific community would touch the field of gene therapy with a ten foot pole."

She sighs. "He was abrasive and cavalier about- well, about pretty much everything, but he was brilliant. And kind, I think, under all of that."

"That doesn't explain how HYDRA got their hands on him," Bucky says, more to himself than anyone else. He still looks a little shaken.

"It doesn't. Like, I'm not saying it's _beneath_ HYDRA to have the Taliban on their fucking payroll or whatever, but this whole thing feels like a set-up," Clint says. "Especially considering that, at some point, SHIELD was called in to assist with the search."

"And if SHIELD was still HYDRA at that point..." Steve trails off.

"Then they probably made sure that no one found him." Clint finishes, standing up. " _Jesus_ , this complicates things. I'm gonna' call Nat, see if she can dig up any intel on what went down."

If he squints, Steve can see the resemblance between this man and Howard- same nose, same narrow mouth. But Howard had been full of life, of energy, a dynamic mess of passion and intellect. The man on the table looks more like the shell of a person, like a living, breathing corpse.

Steve circles over to Bucky, who's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he says after a beat. "I just- I _knew_ him, Steve. We worked together, I think. He was-" Almost unconsciously, Bucky's rubs the metal plating of his arm. "He was _safe_."

Steve frowns at that. The words 'safe' and 'HYDRA' don't exactly go hand in hand.

"I wish I could explain it better than that," Bucky continues. "My gut feeling is that he was an architect, something more than just a weapon. HYDRA used him for his technical abilities, too."

And that makes sense, in an awful, twisted sort of way that Steve doesn't want to think about.

He claps a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "We'll figure this out, alright? If anyone has the answers we need, it's this guy."

Bucky looks like he wants to say something to that, but Helen interrupts.

"Captain," she says. "He's waking up." 

◢✥◣ 

 _Lights, metal, cold. It's bright, blindingly so. He's in the middle of a blizzard, a desert; an empty, endless landscape that stretches out in every direction. There's electricity under his skin and voices in his head, wordless and insistent. The wind picks up, and it's cold, it's_ cold _, and he can't breathe-_

Six's eyes fly open and he jackknifes up, unable to do anything besides heave a few long, shuddering breaths. His pulse crashes in his ears; the air in his lungs feels foreign and stale. Tentative, he places a hand on his chest over the metal casing of the star, tries to will away the nausea curdling his stomach.

"Holy shit," someone mutters. This is followed by a dull thud and a muffled _fuck, Barnes, what gives?_

Six stills, every muscle in his body tensing.

"Uh, hello."

He looks up. A woman, Asian, in her early thirties. A technician? She is wearing a lab coat and a frown. _Uh, hello_ is not a direct question, even in English, so he does not reply. 

"My name is Helen," the woman tries again, sounding uncertain. He lowers his gaze. "What is your name?"

A strange question. He has no name. Six considers this for a moment.

"Specialist designation: Engineer," he replies. His throat feels like sandpaper.

"I'm sorry, Captain, I don't speak-"

A flurry of movement, someone walking away. His technician is upset. Had his answer been incorrect? Heavier steps move towards him, and Six braces himself for punishment.

It never comes.

"Status report." A man's voice, in badly accented Russian this time. Six chances a look up. Blond, tall, strong features. Mid-twenties. No lab coat, no uniform- his new handler, then.

"Functional," he says. The words fall out by rote. "Ready to comply."

His handler makes a face, as if that phrase has caused him a great deal of discomfort.

"There is no mission," he says after a pause. "Do you understand?"

Six doesn't, but the cold still has its fingers in his brain. He does not want to return to the tube.

"Yes sir," he manages, and the man seems pained.

"My name is Steve Rogers," his handler says. "You said that you're a specialist, an engineer. Is there any other designation-" his voice breaks on that word "-you have?"

Six has been called many things, most of them words he is forbidden to say to a superior.

"Six," he says eventually, because it is true. He is number six. He wonders if this is the answer Steve Rogers is looking for.

"Six," the man repeats. "Six. Okay. I can- I can work with that. Listen, Six, do you know where you are?"

Taking that as permission, he looks around. The room is large, with glass panels for walls and benches cluttered with instruments. The door is unguarded. Computers, metal floors, and- _do you know where you are? Have you figured it out yet?_

Six twitches as a phantom pain slams into him, shoving the not-quite memory away and out of sight. With luck, his handler hasn't noticed this indiscretion.

"HYDRA has many labs," he says cautiously. "This one is unfamiliar."

Steve Rogers runs a hand through his hair, looking torn. Six has never had a handler quite this emotional before. He finds it disconcerting.

"We're in a South Korean research facility, just outside of Seoul. This isn't HYDRA." A pause. "You've, um. You've been asleep for a while."

This doesn't make sense, in the same way that _no mission_ doesn't make sense, but Six knows better than to ask questions.

Steve Rogers could be testing him.

"We're here to help you, okay?" The man says softly. _Gentle_. "You're not going back to that place."

And- _no_. He is loyal to HYDRA and he is not permitted to leave without a handler. He has  _orders_ and, if Steve Rogers is telling the truth, then he has left without a handler. There is no use for a gun without a trigger finger, and- _you are HYDRA's guiding hands_.

They will punish him when he returns.

The room is spinning now, the nausea back in full-force. Unsteady, Six grips the side of the table in order to stay upright.

"Are you okay?"

It's a direct question, one he needs to answer, but it's difficult to breathe. He can't seem to make his mouth move. His ears ring, a cold dread fills his veins with ice.

 _Run_ , something in him urges. _Run_.

Steve Rogers touches his arm, and it's like a switch has been flipped. Six jerks to his feet, catches the hand in a crushing grip. He has the man on the ground and is sprinting out the door in a matter of seconds.

Down the hall and a hard left, he's making a break for the stairwell when someone tackles him from behind. He twists, throws a hard punch. His assailant, another solidly built blond man, does not loosen his grip.

" _Don't shoot the brainwashed engineer_ , they said," the man mutters, delivering a hard kick to the back of Six's thigh. " _It'll hurt his feelings_ , they said."

He lets his leg give out; keeps low and out of reach of the next swing before pivoting suddenly. He catches the man across the waist and barrels forwards to drive him against the wall. Six braces an arm across his throat, follows up with a swift knee to the groin.

The man crumples, biting out a curse, and Six is off down the hall again.

He makes it to the top of the landing before another body crashes into his, sending them both careening down a full flight of stairs. Pain explodes in the back of his head, vision whiting out for a split second. The man rolls, pins him to the floor, and he lashes out, blind, because the panic is still _there_ , still _cold_ and _burning_ , and-

"Stop."

-and Six, hard-wired to obey, to _heel_ , stills.

With one word, the fight has been ripped from his body.

They will break him for this, he knows. Attacking a handler is forbidden. They will put him in the chair or in the dark room or on the table with the men that make him bleed. They will hurt him until he forgets everything else. HYDRA has no need for fear, and so they took that away a long time ago, but fear is what he feels now.

Heart hammering in his chest, he blinks once, twice.

Above him, the face of the Winter Soldier swims into view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, for reference, because i know someone's gonna ask: we skipped forward a bit to 2020. it's been six years since DC and four since bucky threw hands in romania (hence the 'fiasco in bucharest'). 
> 
> the chitauri invasion was in 2012. ultron never happened and, because cap and tony weren't pulling pigtails, neither did the accords.
> 
> bucky _was_ put on trial and obie _did_ pull some strings. steve testified and teared up on the stand a little. it was very patriotic. 
> 
> steve speaks russian, but like, badly. 
> 
> bucky's parole is set to expire in 2021. he volunteers at an animal shelter for his community service and is currently trying to convince natasha to adopt a cat.
> 
>  
> 
> feedback, concrit, etc. always welcome
> 
> i'm over on [tumblr](https://ventrie.tumblr.com)


	6. smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which rhodey is emotional, six has an existential crisis, and the team uncovers the beginnings of Dastardly Plot
> 
> gasoline now has some gorgeous [fanart](https://thriceajuni.tumblr.com/post/182147770423/drew-these-for-this-fanfic-ive-been-reading), courtesy of [thricejuni](https://thriceajuni.tumblr.com).

"Have I mentioned recently that I'm getting a little sick of brainwashed Russian assassins?" Sam asks. He spares a glance at Bucky and Natasha. "I mean, like, no offense or anything, but _damn_."

Across the table, Natasha shrugs. "None taken."

She's putting up a good front of looking unbothered by this whole thing, but Steve knows her tells. The slight thinning of her lips, the way her fingers curl against the table just a tad tighter than usual.

"Aw, Wilson. We don't use the 'b-word' around here," Clint says. "It's bad for morale, makes Cap's face get all weird- like that! See?"

Steve, who definitely _isn't_ making a face, just sighs. "We need a plan. And Barton, if the next words out of your mouth are 'shoot him', you're benched for a month."

Clint honest to god _pouts_ , and Steve is about _five seconds_ from just getting up and leaving. It wouldn't be particularly leaderly of him, but he's at the end of his rope here. They've been at this for two hours, and have made exactly zero progress towards a definitive plan on how to deal with Stark.

Stark, who had taken Steve down in a matter of seconds. Stark, who will only speak to Bucky, who will only speak Russian, who looks damaged and dangerous and _terrified_ all at once.

Stark, who is currently locked in _Steve's bathroom_ , because the team has no official headquarters and taking him to Stane is out of the question.

"We're out of our depth here, Cap," Sam says with a sigh. "You pulled Barnes out of his own head kicking and screaming. The power of friendship can only go so far."

"It was more than that," Bucky's been mostly silent throughout this, a brooding shadow in Steve's periphery, but he speaks up now. "It wasn't _just_ Steve. He was more like a catalyst. He broke through that first layer, made me realize that something was wrong in the first place."

He takes a deep breath. "Because HYDRA didn't- they don't- just force compliance. They manufacture loyalty, make you dependent on them, _only_ them. You forget everything else."

"Like an abusive relationship," Sam murmurs.

"Conditioning," Natasha says flatly.

Time and time again, Steve thinks that this is it, that this is the worst humanity has to offer. He's lived through World War II, through SHIELD's betrayal, through the government nearly dropping a nuclear bomb on its own people. He lives through these things, and thinks, _yeah, this is as bad as it can get_.

He's disappointed, every single _damn_ time.

"But he recognizes you," Clint points out, even as Bucky shakes his head.

"From when he was there. It's different." His lips twist into a bitter smile. "We were together for about six years. I don't remember most of it. It's safe to say that I'm probably a walking, talking trigger for him."

There's something there, something that gives Steve pause. He thinks about what Bucky had said earlier- _he was safe_ \- and frowns. He opens his mouth to ask, but Natasha cuts him off.

"I think," she says. "We should get in touch with James Rhodes."

◢✥◣

The Soldier puts him in a room, tells him to _stay put_. Six does.

The bathroom is small but clean. The things in here come in pairs: two worn, slightly damp towels, two toothbrushes by the sink. He is in a _home_ , cherished and obviously well-loved.

They have told him three things, in this order: he is in New York, he is safe from HYDRA, and he has forgotten who he is.

Only one of these things is easy to understand.

His head hurts, the same way it does after a dream- a dull throb at the base of his skull, a building pressure behind his eyes. It's the feeling of _almost_ , the feeling of grasping for something just out of reach. 

He wants it to go away.

The lock clicks and he darts back, flattening himself against the wall just as the door swings open to reveal a woman.

Slight, red hair. His first thought is that she looks fragile, but no, that isn't right. There's something about the way she moves, silent and sure, that says _danger_. Like a snake, like a _spider_ , beautiful and deadly.

This is a woman that takes great care to appear harmless, benign. She is anything but.

"I thought you might be hungry," she says. She puts a bottle of water and a granola bar at his feet, both sealed, and sets a pile of folded clothes on the sink counter. "These might be a little big."

Six does not reply, does not touch the food she has given him despite the snarling of his stomach.

"You're smart," this woman says. "And so I'm sure you have questions. I have answers, if you want them."

She speaks to him softly, evenly, as if he is easily frightened. He does not trust her, but he still needs to ask.

"Why?" _Why am I here? Why are you doing this?_

"Because I know what they did to you, what they _took_ from you, even if you don't."

Six considers this, tips his head to the side. "They hurt you."

"They _made_ me."

There is a difference, he thinks, between _doing_ and _undoing_ , a line drawn by intent and pain and very little else.

"Six. My name is Six," He pauses. Name. Identity. These are unfamiliar concepts. "Except that it isn't."

"It wasn't." She looks thoughtful, and maybe a little sad. "Once, you were a man named Tony Stark."

Tony Stark. _Tony Stark_. The name makes the buzzing in his ears grow louder, and he resists the urge to clutch at his head. This could be a lie, another trick. His handlers have done this in the past.

"They told me not to tell you," she continues. There is no apology in her eyes, no sympathy. He is grateful for that, if for nothing else. "Memory is a fickle, violent thing. But you deserve whatever truth I can give you."

"I am not him," Six whispers. _Tony Stark_. He _hates_ this name.

"No," she says. "You aren't."

◢✥◣

Eventually, Six washes and eats, dresses in the too-loose clothes the redheaded woman had provided.

Steve Rogers comes for him after a while; takes him out of the room and asks him to sit on a couch. Six does not know what to make of this man- he is too bright, too earnest. He treats Six like he is made of spun glass, like he is a spooked horse, taking care to avoid any sudden movements.

It is _irritating_. He casts his eyes about the room. One exit, at least three possible weapons within arms reach. No sign of the Soldier or the woman who is like a spider. 

"We called someone that we think might be able to help," Steve Rogers starts. The English grates on his ears. "But this is your decision. If you don't feel up to it, I can tell him to go."

Steve Rogers doesn't understand the luxury of choice. The options that he offers aren't really options, and so Six simply nods his assent.

He returns a moment later with a tall, black man in tow.

The man looks like he has been punched in the gut.

"Tony?" He says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Is that- is that you?"

 _No_ , Six wants to say, but all he can do is stare. This man looks _familiar_. Strong jaw, broad chest, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and- _the taste of coffee, bitter and sweet, the feeling of snow on his cheeks._

The man moves suddenly, fast, _too fast_ , and Six is off the couch and halfway across the room in an instant. Distance is good. Distance is safe.

"Carefully, Colonel."

"Fuck, sorry, I-" The man steps forward, slower this time, hands held out in front of him. "I'm James Rhodes. Jim. You called me Rhodey."

 _Rhodey_. That feels- that feels _right_ , but Six doesn't know why. _The smell of smoke, hot sand under his fingers, a pain in his chest-_ his head throbs in time with his racing heart.

"I knew you," Six says. It isn't a question. He stops, frowns. "We were friends."

The man- _Rhodes_ \- nods, swallowing tightly. "We were. Are. Best friends. Have been, ever since college. You threw up on my shoes."

"I don't remember," he says. Rhodes winces. 

"That's, uh. That's okay. They messed with your head pretty bad." He sucks in a tight breath. "Captain, could we have a minute?"

Steve Rogers looks between them before sighing. "I'll be down the hall," he says, clapping Rhodes on the shoulder. "Let me know if you need anything."

Six watches him leave. They are alone now, and Rhodes takes a seat on the couch.

"Your name," he says, and he sounds heavy, _tired_. "Your name is Tony, and we met when you were fourteen years old."

This is how he learns of a man named Tony Stark, who was brilliant and selfless and, very often, alone. Rhodes talks about late nights at MIT and early mornings in Malibu, about how Tony Stark fixed things but never people. He talks of loss, of heartbreak, of things like _love_ and _brotherhood_ ; he talks until his voice is hoarse and his eyes are damp with tears he doesn't bother to hide.

"You died," Rhodes says. "You died, and my world came crashing down around me. It was- it was like a piece of me had gone missing, like I was missing a limb. I blamed myself for _years_. And I know this isn't fair, I know that asking forgiveness from a man who can't give it is impossible, but I'm sorry."

He grits his teeth, swipes ineffectively at his eyes. "Damn it, Tony. I am _so sorry_."

There is nothing that Six can say. _It's okay_ is a lie, and _I don't forgive you_ is cruel. He does not want to be cruel to James Rhodes.

So he stays silent, tries, uselessly, to reconcile who he is with who he is supposed to be.

His head aches, that feeling of _almost_ clamoring for attention in the back of his mind. These not-memories are broken, fractured pieces of a puzzle, complicated swirls of _sight_ , _smell_ , _touch_. At the center of it all is this man, _Rhodes_ , with his rough palms and dark eyes.

"Sauerkraut," Six says. This is all he can offer.

Rhodes looks at him, caught off guard. "What do you-"

"You and I. Once." His voice is quiet. "A fight. Forgiveness. Sauerkraut."

He sees the moment Rhodes gets it, the moment he remembers what Six cannot.

The smile James Rhodes gives him, he decides, is worth the pounding in his head.

◢✥◣

It is dark outside.

James Rhodes and Steve Rogers left several hours ago, but Six does not presume to be alone. He feels the Soldier's eyes on him always, an invisible weight between his shoulder blades. The file that Rhodes had given him- _for whenever you're ready, Tony_ \- sits on the coffee table, unopened.

"You are avoiding me," he says.

A pause, a noiseless shift. He does not turn.

"Yes," the Soldier acknowledges. "I thought it would be easier."

Nothing about this is easy.

Six lies back on the couch, stares at the ceiling with unblinking eyes. The star in his chest casts a shadow along his face through the fabric of his borrowed shirt. The shirt is grey and reads 'Park Slope Animal Rescue' in faded red letters. It smells, very faintly, of smoke.

"Is it?"

The Soldier's footsteps circle around, coming to stop at the far end of the couch. "No."

Six tips his head back, traces the faint outline of the Soldier's silhouette against the pale light of the window. "I asked you if you remembered. In the cold, just once."

"I didn't," the Soldier says.

"But you do now?"

It feels strange, this ability to ask and answer so freely. Exhilarating, almost. Six has always hungered for knowledge, even when such hunger was forbidden.

"Most days. It took time."

Six thinks about the spot on his leg, just above his knee, where a faded, puckered scar lurks among a hundred others. He thinks about careful hands, and wide, liquid eyes under industrial lights. He thinks about the man named _Tony Stark_.

This is a fact: no one is meant to live in the space between _remembering_ and _forgetting_.

Cool air washes over his skin as the Soldier steps out onto the fire escape, leaving the window open in a wordless invitation. After a moment, Six follows. The Soldier hands him a cigarette, lights it with a quiet _snick_ of a lighter.

"It gets better," he says. It sounds like a promise.

Together, they smoke under a February moon, cold and silent, shoulder to shoulder.

◢✥◣

Six settles into a routine in the weeks that follow. It goes like this: wake up, eat the food that Steve Rogers provides, watch the television until the Soldier comes to collect him. He likes the cartoons.

The Soldier, who says his name is James-and-sometimes-Bucky, takes him outside. They go on walks, or to cafés, and talk about things that make his head hurt. He has only tried to escape twice.

"There was a doctor," Six says today, over a steaming mug of something James calls _mocha_. He is speaking English because James has asked him to. "He was in charge of us."

"Us?" James asks.

He nods. "Us. There were others, specialists like me." He holds up six fingers to show. "I am number six. There were nine, and then seven, and then only five. You taught us."

These memories are more concrete than the things from Before.

"If I showed you a picture of the doctor, would you be able to identify him?"

Six considers this. When he thinks of the doctor, he thinks of _pain_ and metal in his mouth, thinks of a velvet voice, deep as the ocean. "Maybe," he says.

He is not sure what the point of these lessons is. To help him remember? To gather information on HYDRA? They don't tell him anything, even when he asks. Steve Rogers still treats him like he is something breakable.

"Your dreams have been getting worse," James says, a non-sequitur.

Most nights, Six wakes up screaming, hands scrabbling at his chest and bile in the back of his throat. It's _too much_ , the voices and the _longing_ and the blood staining his skin. The Soldier comes for him each time, makes him cup of bitter tasting tea and settles at the foot of the couch like a sentry.

Six never asks why.

"Yes," he replies, then hesitates. "And no. Things are clearer now, louder. Less _almost_."

He wonders if this makes sense to James, who has said next to nothing about his Before. From what Six has gathered, James Barnes and Steve Rogers were best friends until James went to HYDRA and Steve died and then didn't die.

Six has mixed feelings about Steve Rogers, who is friendly, likes his eggs sunny-side up, and is sometimes called Captain America.

He doesn't know what to make of most of that.

James takes a sip of his drink, says again: "It gets better."

Six doesn't know what to make of that, either.

◢✥◣

"We have a problem," Natasha says.

They're in a twenty-four hour diner a few blocks from Steve's apartment. It's Sam's turn to babysit their recently defrosted houseguest, so it's just Bucky, Steve, Clint, and Natasha crammed into a booth over lukewarm cups of coffee.

"Have you noticed that we always have a problem?" Clint grumbles, still bleary-eyed. It's six in the goddamn morning on a Sunday and, because this is New York, the G train had taken, like, _twenty-five minutes_ to show up. He's allowed to be a little bitter. "Seriously, why is that?"

"We're a dysfunctional team of vigilante superheroes currently harboring a war criminal," Bucky says flatly. "Next question."

"What kind of problem are we talking about here, Nat?" Steve asks, cutting in before this can devolve into a full-blown pissing match.

"I did some digging after Clint called from Seoul," she says. "We were right- Stark's abduction has HYDRA's greasy fingers all over it. I crosschecked files from the SHIELD dump, but there were gaps, holes in the story that didn't add up."

She slides a thin stack of papers across the table. "All evidence suggests that was an inside job."

Bucky studies the file. There are aerial photos of the demonstration site, missile schematics, correspondence chains between Alexander Pierce and a redacted recipient.

"So HYDRA, wearing Pierce's face, wearing SHIELD's face, orchestrated this whole thing," he says. "That doesn't tell us anything new."

"It doesn't," she agrees. "If this was HYDRA's plan from the beginning, why bother going through the Ten Rings? They had the resources to make Stark disappear from anywhere on the planet, so why then? Why there?"

"You're saying that someone else was in on this," Steve muses.

Natasha nods. "I don't know who and I don't know why. There's no trail, and believe me, I looked. Whoever was corroborating with Pierce was very, very careful."

Clint drains his mug and frowns. "Yeah, but, like, doesn't this seem a little weird to anyone else? I mean, this is HYDRA, the _literal_ _embodiment_ of pure evil, and their master plan was to, what, stick some genius's brain in a blender and turn him into a lo-cal Winter Soldier knock off?"

They ponder that in silence for a minute.

"What if Stark wasn't the target?" Bucky says. "Think long term: who would HYDRA need to either use or get rid of in order to inflict the maximum amount of damage?"

Steve traces a thumb over a schematic for the Jericho missile, thinks of Stark's clever, cautious gaze.

"You know, if I wanted to take over the world," he says slowly. "Stane Industries would be a good place to start."

◢✥◣

"And I'm telling you that it's out of the question," Pepper Potts snaps into her phone. "No, I will not reconsider. You can tell _Obadiah Stane_ that if he wants to call a meeting, I'll be happy to discuss this in front of the Board."                           

She hits the 'end call' button with a vicious stab. It's not even eight in the morning and she already has a headache- this has to be some kind of record.

"I take it that went well," Happy remarks, opening the car door for her.

Pepper just groans. "About as well as expected. I swear, it's like he's _trying_ to drive this company into the ground."

"Or just push you out of it," Happy says under his breath.

And that... that isn't exactly outside the realm of possibility

Because when Tony Stark died twelve years ago, the last thing anyone had expected was for him to leave his entire share of company stock to his PA. Overnight, she had gone from 'Pepper Potts, Long-Suffering Corporate Babysitter' to 'Pepper Potts, Majority Shareholder of the Largest Weapons Conglomerate in the World'. She's been the figurative thorn in Obadiah's side ever since.

Even in death, Tony never stopped surprising her.

He was an absolute catastrophe of a man, a non-stop whirlwind of a person. Tony Stark was like a solar flare, like a car crash, magnetic and dangerous; impossible to ignore and impossible to love. Pepper _misses_ that stupid, careless bastard every second of her life. She doesn't think she'll ever stop.

A knock at the window pulls her from her thoughts.

"Can I help you?"

It's a man, tan and stocky and blond. He looks distinctly out of place in the middle of the Financial District, dressed in jeans and a thin, ratty sweater despite the chill of early spring. There's a black case slung over one shoulder- she's thinking either _homeless_ or _art student_. It's hard to tell these days.

"Pepper Potts?" She nods, looking a little suspicious when he perks up. "Fantastic. I've been knocking on limo windows, like, _all_ morning, you have no idea. Now, come with me if you want to live."

She's about to just roll up the window and tell Happy to drive, when the blond man yanks the door open and tackles her to the ground. There's a quiet _pop_ followed by the sound of breaking glass.

"Jesus _Christ_ ," she shrieks, trying to scramble up. "Was that- was that a _gun_? Is anyone hurt? Who _are_ you?"

"Yes it was, no, I don't think so, and- _would you please stay still_ \- I'm Clint." He lifts his head up, yells through the divider. "Oh my _god_ , man, can you just _drive_?"

The car lurches into motion just as another _pop_ shatters the rear window. Pepper screams, covering her head with her hands.

"Is this a kidnapping? Am I being kidnapped? I will be _so mad_ if this is a kidnapping," she says. The man gets off of her, swings the case off of his shoulder and pulls out a goddamn _bow_.

"Not a kidnapping, pinky promise. I'm supposed to be, like, a good guy or something."

The car is still speeding forward. Clint strings two arrows, pulls back, fires, knocking out the front tires of a black sedan behind them without so much as a blink.

"You're _Hawkeye_ ," Pepper says, because she's seen him on the news before, remembers the Invasion as well as anyone. As far as she knows, there's no other idiot prancing around New York with a weapon from the Dark Ages.

He flicks her a quick salute. "At your service."

Shaky, she pulls herself onto one of the seats, keeps her head low. There's glass everywhere, decorating the skin of her forearms with tiny, barely-there cuts.

Apparently satisfied that they're no longer being followed, Clint shoulders his bow and settles down next to her.

"I would really appreciate an explanation for all of this," she says, in her best 'I Can and Will Make You Regret Your Entire Life' voice. It's the same one she uses in board meetings, the same one she had used when Tony was being a special kind of pain in the ass.

"Anything I tell you is gonna sound completely _bananas_ , you know that, right?"

Pepper gives him a _look_ , crosses her arms, and waits. Clint sighs.

"Fine, okay, don't say I didn't warn you," he mutters. "So, SparkNotes version: it turns out that there's this evil plot to destroy the fabric of civilization. We've had a feeling that Stane Industries was involved in some way, because reducing US Government's primary weapons contractor to a smokin' hot pile of rubble at the feet of the Chrysler Building seems like a primo way to kick-start a villainous takeover."

"But, up until now, there was nothing to go on except a hunch, an unreliable amnesiac, and some shady paperwork. All of our leads were dead ends." He pauses. "Eric Lynch was found dead in his apartment last night."

Pepper gasps. Lynch had been the company's Chief Creative Officer for almost five years. He was an asshole, unoriginal and misogynistic, but that wasn't exactly a crime punishable by death. God, he'd had a _family_ , a wife and a two-year-old son.

"Given the _literal firefight_ we were just in, I'd say it's safe to assume that you and a bunch of other SI bigwigs now have a batshit crazy neo-Nazi organization gunning for you. And, because there's no way to tell how far up this goes, you're stuck with me, a partially defunct intelligence agency, and my merry little band of Justice League rejects as your only protection."

Pepper needs a martini. It's 8:15 in the morning, and she _needs a martini_.

"Oh, also- your old boss is back from the dead and is currently, how do I put this, _bug fucking nuts_." He gives her a winning smile. "Any questions?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is there a plot to this? is this even coherent to anyone? is this all just an elaborate ploy to write about six wearing bucky's clothes?
> 
> you funky little readers give me life. keep the love, feedback, concrit, etc. coming.
> 
> send me things on [tumblr](https://ventrie.tumblr.com)


	7. rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which sam wilson is bad at chess and pepper potts is having exactly None Of This
> 
> short lil' chapter because i am appallingly busy, but whatever.

"Checkmate."

"What the hell, man? You learned how to play this _an hour ago_ ," Sam Wilson complains.

Six gives him a flat look.

Steve Rogers and James have been gone since yesterday morning, and no one will tell him why. He is wary of breaks in routine, and not even a sad excuse for a chess match or the cheerful yellow sponge on the television will distract him.

"Tell me where they are," Six says again.

"Nope," Wilson says. "They'll be back when they get back. You worried or something?"

Six grits his teeth, doesn't dignify that with a response. "I could just kill you and find them myself."

Recently, Steve Rogers has taken to helping him improve his 'people skills'. Tony Stark had been a talkative and charismatic man, but Six is not Tony Stark. He resents these efforts immensely.

"You could, maybe, but Barnes would be disappointed." Wilson raises an eyebrow, looking wholly unthreatened, and adds: "Plus, you'd ruin your streak."

He gestures to a sheet of paper tacked to the refrigerator. On it, the words "DAYS SINCE LAST ATTEMPTED MURDER" are scrawled in black marker. A frowning stick figure man with a blue circle in his chest accompanies the four crooked tally marks that lie underneath.

Clint Barton, he thinks, probably has a death wish.

"The tallies are for attempted murder," he says. "If you actually die, I keep my streak."

Wilson squints at him for a long moment, mouth half open. "Was that- was that a _joke_? I mean, you definitely threatened to kill me, but in, like, a funny way. I think that counts."

HYDRA had not kept him for his sense of humor, and so Six does not reply, just begins resetting the board once more. 

◢✥◣

SHIELD Headquarters is a shadow of what it used to be.

The new building is located in Queens on the bank of the East River. It's small and nondescript, more like a warehouse than the home base of an intelligence agency. Steve feels bizarrely out of place.

He'd been hesitant to involve SHIELD, but after the attack on Pepper Potts this morning, it's clear that this is a lot bigger than just one man. Steve is a tactician at heart, and he knows that it's impossible to fight a one-man war against an invisible enemy. They need resources and connections in order to go up against HYDRA.

That doesn't change the fact that Steve trusts Nick Fury about as far as he can throw him.

Pepper Potts stands as soon as he enters the conference room. She's a few inches shorter than him, even with a formidable pair of heels. Her sensible pantsuit is wrinkled and her forearms are littered with bandages.

She looks both disheveled and impossibly put together.

"Captain Rogers?"

"Yes ma'am. Nice to meet you."

"You," she says, skipping the preamble entirely. "Owe me a _hell_ of a lot of answers."

It's a tone that brokers absolutely no argument, a tone that would make lesser men wilt.

Steve winces. "Agent Barton briefed you on the situation-"

"Agent Barton was a little busy pulling me out of a _firefight_ ," she says with a hiss. "I have been _shot at_ , Captain, and I do not take kindly to that, so this is what is going to happen: you are going to sit down, shut up, and answer _each and_ _every one_ of my questions until I am satisfied."

Steve sits down, wishes, faintly, that Natasha were here.

"I understand that this must be confusing for you, Ms. Potts," he says. "But my team is taking every length to ensure the safety of you and the rest of the Board-"

"Where is Tony Stark, Captain Rogers?"

Goddamn _Clint_. Steve resists the very real urge to scrub a hand across his face.

"You have to understand that the situation is delicate," he says. "We have reason to believe that people behind your attack and Eric Lynch's death are the same people responsible for Six's- er, Mr. Stark's disappearance."

"Clint mentioned," she says, eyes narrowed, and then goes straight for the jugular. "He also said that Tony wasn't, you know. All there."

And Steve _hates_ this conversation, wants to say _no, please don't ask_ , but he can't, because Pepper Potts deserves the truth. Steve has never run away from the truth before, and he's not going to start now.

So he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and gestures for her to sit.

"From what we understand, Mr. Stark was taken prisoner by HYDRA after escaping captivity in Afghanistan twelve years ago," he starts. "He was tortured, Ms. Potts, very likely within an inch of his life, before being given a modified version of the Super Soldier serum used on me in 1941."

This is the same speech he'd given to Colonel Rhodes, nearly identical to the testimony he'd provided at Bucky's trial. Steve forces the words out by rote, tries to keep his voice as even and clinical as he can make it.

"Mr. Stark was subjected to a type of high-voltage electroshock therapy designed to impair long-term memory recall. He was then indoctrinated and trained to kill."

 _Indoctrinated_ is his way of glossing over what, exactly, it takes to break a man like Tony Stark.

"We suspect that, under HYDRA's command, Mr. Stark designed highly advanced weaponry and carried out a number of assassinations around the world."

With Bucky's help, Natasha had compiled a list. There are obvious things that bear the mark of Stark's genius, like the Helicarrier and Project Insight, but it's the whispers, the suspicious disappearances and malignant computer viruses, that are harder to pinpoint.

Steve swallows. "Tony Stark isn't the man he once was, Ms. Potts. I'm sorry."

All the color has bled from Pepper's face. She sits there, silent, for what feels like hours, hands folded in a white knuckled grip in her lap. The room is thick with her grief.

"That was... not what I was expecting," she whispers. "Part of me wants to think that you're lying."

"I'm not," he replies. "I wish I was."

"Captain America doesn't lie," she says with a faint smile. "I'd like to see him soon. If he's able."

Steve nods. He can't help but think that Pepper Potts and Peggy Carter would have gotten along like a house on fire. 

◢✥◣

Five hours and eighteen chess games later, Sam Wilson gets off the phone, tosses a leather jacket in his lap, and says: "Look sharp. We're going on a road trip."

The 'road trip' turns out to be a taxi to SHIELD Headquarters. Six almost strangles Wilson then and there.

They're halfway over the Pulaski Bridge. He still has time to make it look like an accident.

"SHIELD is HYDRA," he says, glaring.

"SHIELD _was_ HYDRA," Wilson corrects. "They've reformed. Kind of like you."

This new freedom to _do_ , _say_ , _choose_ is overwhelming in a thousand different ways, but _reformed_ seems like the wrong word. While it is true that he no longer wants to go back to HYDRA or the chair or the doctor, he misses the laboratory and the uncomplicated thrill of creation. He misses how _easy_ it was to shut up, build this, kill them.

This is the crux of the matter: Six is not good.

Six is half of a man with blood on his hands and ghosts for memories. These days, the voices in the back of his mind are like living things, vibrant and deafening, a disjointed cacophony of _feeling_ coupled with the promise of almost, almost, _almost_.

The only time they quiet is at the Soldier's side.

The Soldier- no, _James_ \- is patient and strong and unbearably kind. James is an anchor weathering the storm of his fractured identity, guarding him at night and guiding him during the day. James watches cartoons and buys coffee and never hurts him. He does these things because he wants to, because he _cares_.

And that is why Six stays, why he does not throw Sam Wilson from a moving car.

 _Reformed_ or not, this is the only thing he can offer to James.

"Stay close," Wilson mutters as they enter the building.

There's a part of his brain dedicated to the art of threat assessment, a part that zeroes in on blind spots in camera angles and maps exit routes automatically.

SHIELD security is good, but he is better. Having a way out makes it easier to breathe.

James is waiting for them when they step off the elevator. He _looks_ well, save for a shallow gash high above one brow, but Six peers at him, surreptitiously checking for any further injuries.

It would not do, he decides, for James Barnes to be hurt.

"Just heard back from Nat," he says. "The last members of the Board have been moved to secure locations. We're collaborating with SHIELD to assign security details, but it's been kinda' tricky. Rich folks are touchy about things like 'death threats' and 'personal space'. 

Sam snorts. "Ain't that the truth."

James catches Six's eye and doubles back as they start down the hall.

"I'm fine, you know," he says, low enough to escape Wilson's attention. He gestures to the cut. "Barely got shot at. This is just a scratch."

Six purses his lips, deliberates. "Get shot at less."

"You sound like Steve," James says, laughing when he makes a face. "You can keep the jacket, by the way. The sleeve keeps getting caught on my shoulder plate."

"Your arm is functional?"

With the correct materials, the plating issue can be easily remedied. Six thinks back to the countless hours of maintenance with a terrible kind of nostalgia.

Away from HYDRA, there is nothing to do, nothing to _fix_.

James nods. "Yeah, it's holding up. Besides, this looks good on ya'."

The jacket is a size too big and has a scorch mark on the elbow. The jacket will not provide adequate protection in combat.

The jacket smells of metal and smoke and James, and Six finds that he does not care in the slightest.

◢✥◣

They step into a room and James swears, loudly and in Russian. "What the hell, Steve? A goddamn heads up woulda' been nice-"

He's cut off by a woman, who pushes her way past Steve Rogers.

" _Tony_ ," she says, and he stumbles back like he's been hit.

 _Chamomile and the smell of roses, the taste of vanilla ice cream. Summer breeze and sand between his toes. Hard words, sweet smiles, bright red nail polish and laughter in his ears. Bloodstained snow and a smoking gun. Champagne and satin, her hair is strawberry blonde and her eyes are blue and she says "Will that be all, Mr. Stark?" like it means something else._

_He adores this ridiculous, fearless woman, who is tough as nails and unflinchingly kind. She is patient and gentle and firm, and he trusts her, he trusts her, he-_

"Six! Fuck, man, take it easy."

Reality roars in on the end of a gasp, and Six comes to on his knees. He doesn't remember falling. Wilson's hand is steady on his shoulder; whether it is to comfort or restrain, he isn't sure. He heaves in a breath, realizes, dimly, that he's shaking.

This is what he knows now: _remembering_ does not mean _peace_.

This is not a dam breaking or a divine revelation, this is the earth crumbling beneath his feet. In the space of one moment and the next, _almost_ has given way to a flood of memories. They are bathed in sepia, muted and soft around the edges. They belong to someone else.

The pounding in his head and the star in his chest are two parts of the same song.

"Dammit, Stevie. You shoulda' told me," James mutters.

Steve Rogers is in between him and the woman, looking equal parts upset and concerned. "I didn't think..." he trails off.

"Tony," the woman- _Pepper Potts_ , because that's who it is- says again.

"I-" he stops, the words catching in his throat. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't know what he's apologizing for, only that it feels like the right thing to say. The weight of _Tony Stark_ has never been quite so heavy.

She takes a step forward and then another until they are facing each other. Slowly, she reaches down to take his hand in hers. He is on his knees and her hands are small, delicate. Soft. The touch burns him, grounds him, makes him want to fight and flee and _weep_ all at once. 

"It's okay," Pepper whispers. Her eyes are brimming with tears. " _It's okay_."

◢✥◣

Later, he stands outside.

It is raining, a fine mist that cloaks the bank of the river and makes the Manhattan skyline appear hazy in the distance. Pepper Potts is back inside with the rest of the team, planning their next move against HYDRA. For once, he has no chaperone, no loudmouthed Clint Barton or well-intentioned Steve Rogers hovering over his shoulder.

It would be very easy to disappear.

"If you run, I'll follow."

He does not startle when James breaks the silence, just raises an eyebrow and continues looking out over the water.

"Why?"

A rustle, the soft _click_ of a lighter. He accepts the cigarette James hands to him and takes a drag, waiting.

"Steve- and, I mean, he's my best friend, probably the _one good thing_ about me, but he's clinging to a guy who died eighty years ago," James says after a beat. "You're the only person who's ever shown me a shred of goddamn kindness without expecting anythin' in return,"

These words sound like a confession.

"He's not." He exhales, watches the smoke mingle with the rain. "Steve Rogers is not the one good thing about you."

James sighs. "Listen, Six-"

" _Don't_ ," he spits. "I'm not- I don't know who I am."

He is Tony Stark but he isn't. He is Six but he isn't. He is somewhere in between, a pitiful, broken _thing_ forged by anguish and a desperate need to survive.

This is what he remembers: being made and unmade.

He remembers every single _damn_ time he has bled and screamed and begged for death. He remembers the weapons built with his hands and the people with their blank, lifeless eyes. He remembers his Before like one remembers a dream, remembers the booze and the drugs and the constant shadow of his father's disappointment.

There is a _bomb_ in his chest and Tony Stark is the one who put it there.

"You don't have to know who you are," James says, and his voice is rough. "Names don't mean shit. Just... start over, rebuild. You like bad TV and you drink your coffee with a stupid amount of sugar. You never smoke menthol and you steal Steve's objectively hideous tee shirts when you think he's not looking. You're a genius; you never pull your punches. You _fix_ things."

Quietly, he adds: "You fixed me."

The sky is grey and it turns the water the color of gunmetal. They stand shoulder to shoulder, and he finds that he cannot meet James' eyes for fear of shattering.

He has lived a hundred different lives and has never felt so delicate.

"I can try," he says slowly. "To remake. For you."

James smiles, and it lights up his entire face. He is so _different_ from the Soldier, from the man who once broke him.

"That's more than enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, feedback, concrit, & love all welcome
> 
> talk to me on [tumblr](https://ventrie.tumblr.com)


	8. break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which tony makes some friends, the slow burn burns slower, and the plot thickens.
> 
> here, have an obnoxiously long, barely coherent chapter that only serves to further complicate this convoluted monstrosity of a fic. sorry in advance, guys.
> 
> we're probably... i dunno', maybe halfway through? something like that.

The attacks are getting worse.

Last week, it was the Highline in Chelsea. Today, it had been Flushing Meadows Park. Steve can't help but get the feeling that HYDRA- because it's definitely HYDRA- is gearing up for something big.

"This is getting ridiculous," Clint complains for about the third time. "Seriously, I think it's in my _nose_. You know what's not supposed to be in your nose, Cap? _Cement_."

They're all covered nearly head to toe with the stuff after an explosion had taken out a concrete mixer along with a chunk of the Van Wyck Expressway. Minimal casualties, but Steve knows he's going to be walking around with goop in his hair for a week.

 _God_ , the debrief had been pointless.

No one has made a move against Stane Industries since Pepper's attack, and, even with SHIELD's help, they're no closer to figuring out HYDRA's endgame. Nothing makes _sense_ \- these random attacks, the threats to the Board, and, smack in the middle of everything, Tony Stark.

Tony Stark, recently recovered amnesiac and newest addition to their weird little team, who sleeps on their couch and absolutely refuses to buy any of his own clothes. Stark, who still walks around with that chilly, vacant look in his eyes, the one Clint calls the 'Soviet Murder Stare', and screams himself hoarse every other night.

Stark, who fixed their toaster and bought apology doughnuts after attempting to stab Sam with a butter knife. His recovery is uncharted territory, is nothing like what Steve had helped Bucky through.

Over breakfast one morning, Stark had given him a thick file containing every scrap of information related to his time at HYDRA: weapon designs, computer viruses, mission reports. Some of the notes are exact and overly technical- _beta test of non-nuclear electromagnetic pulse flux compressor successfully overcame Faraday caging, generated an additional 300 MeV of power-_ and some - _one woman one child blonde ~~smelled like roses~~ Strasbourg 2012 snapped necks while ~~husbandfather~~ betrayer cried- _are barely comprehensible.

"I want to help," was all he had said.

Steve's heart broke, just a little.

"I just don't understand what they're playing at," Sam is saying. He'd been airborne at the time of the explosion and is the cleanest out of all of them. Steve only resents this a little. "People aren't getting hurt- it's mostly just property damage."

They come to a stop at a crosswalk. There's not a cab in the world willing to pick up three bloodied superheroes caked in concrete from outside of a government warehouse, so they're stuck with walking to the subway.

"Annoy us to death, probably," Clint grouses.

"We're getting close," Steve says, trying to sound more upbeat than he feels. "Nat's leaning on her contacts." 

"We'd be closer if you'd let Stark off house arrest."

"The dude nearly threw you out of a _window_ on Tuesday. For _taking the last Hot Pocket_ ," Sam says, appalled. "What part about that says 'mentally stable enough to be on the field' to you?"

"Aw, c'mon, it was only, like, the second story. I've been thrown out of windows _way_ higher than that."

And Steve... does not want to think about that, thank you very much. They've taken great pains to keep Tony's existence under wraps; only the team and a select few members of SHIELD know the full story.

Despite that, he understands where Clint's coming from. Stark's file had been invaluable- disturbing and awful, but invaluable. From a tactical perspective, his input would do a lot of good.

Still, Steve shakes his head as he swipes through the turnstile. "Bucky doesn't think it's a good idea."

"Barnes is too busy looming over anyone who breathes in the guy's general direction," Clint says.

Sam rolls his eyes. "You're only saying that because you tried to get Stark to power your Xbox with his reactor and Bucky banned you from the apartment for a week."

"I maintain that that would've been  _hilarious_."

"And potentially  _fatal_."

"Look, getting Stark involved is too risky," Steve maintains, valiantly ignoring that particular exchange in the interest of his sanity. "HYDRA's working in the shadows and, for now, we have to do the same."

Not for the first time, he hopes it's the right call.

◢✥◣

"Absolutely not."

"It's just a trim, Stark, don't be a baby."

Tony glares at Natasha and she glares right back. A pair of scissors sits on the table between them.

"My hair is fine the way it is," he says.

He knows he's being babysat, knows it should be more aggravating than it is, but he tries to think of this as a necessary evil. There are still days it's difficult to trust his own mind.

After James, Natasha is probably his favorite minder. She's unobtrusive and quiet, and they mostly spend their time together reading in silence or talking shop. She always brings food, too: _blini_ and Somali _cambuulo_ , spicy Filipino _dinuguan_ and sticky-sweet Brazilian _brigadeiro_.

Natasha is also the only one that speaks Russian with him. Even James tries to avoid it.

"Your hair," she says, pointing a manicured finger at him. "Is a rat's nest. Clint calls you a murder hobo. It needs to go."

"Barton is an asshole," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. It _has_ gotten long, falling to his collar in a riot of thick, inky black curls.

This is the thing: his appearance hasn't been a priority in a very long time.

The Tony Stark of Before had been a vain man, polished and obsessively clean-cut in the public eye. The Tony Stark of Now is too thin, too _young,_ made up of unshaven edges and corded muscle. He wears faded jeans and heavy sweatshirts that block the light of the reactor.

Most days, he avoids his own reflection like the goddamn _plague_.

"He is," Natasha allows, then adds: "This will help, Antoshka."

And Tony wants to _scream_ at that, because a haircut isn't going to help _anything_ , isn't going to give him back the life he now knows he's lost, but that's not what this is about, not really.

He's spent the past two months learning and relearning the art of How To Be A Person. Real People take showers and eat breakfast and definitely don't put their roommates in chokeholds when they're startled.

Real People get haircuts, and Tony is a Real Person.

"Fine," he says, relenting. "Just- just don't make me look like him. I can't handle that."

She gives him a mischievous little smile. "A bowl cut it is. 

◢✥◣

Two days later, a bomb goes off in Grand Central during rush hour.

It's bad.

It's worse because Tony takes one look at the wreckage on TV and says: " _I did that_."

Steve wants to say _no you didn't_ , wants to say _this isn't your fault_ , but the agonized, fractured look in Stark's eyes makes him stop.

People die. This is a fact of war. But this isn't war and those weren't soldiers and forty people- forty good, _innocent_ people- died because HYDRA took a man and turned him into a monster. None of this is fair, Steve thinks, but that, too, is another fact of war.

They don't stop him from leaving 

◢✥◣

After that, Tony _throws_ himself into work.

The attack on Grand Central is a clear sign that he can no longer sit on the sidelines, dissociative murderous episodes and iffy sense of self be damned. Recovery can wait until they've wiped HYDRA off the fucking map.

Tony has metal in his veins and a hell of a grudge to settle.

Convincing Steve to strong-arm Nick Fury into a Level 3 security clearance for SHIELD R&D takes some effort, but it's worth it. He spends days designing algorithms and tactical gear, hacking into server after server until his eyes glaze over.

No more weapons, not ever.

The memories are stubborn, they're not all there, and Tony knows he's missing something _important_. It's like a loose tooth, an itch at the back of his head, a constant reminder that his mind is no longer his own.

"You should take a break," James says.

Tony grunts in response, attention still mostly fixed on the monitor in front of him.

With a little bit of coaxing and a cleverly placed Trojan virus, he'd managed to break into the internal servers of Stane Industries. The program he's running now is designed to decrypt and compile any and all dealings between SI and SHIELD over the past decade.

Another program, hidden off screen, is a little more personal. Over the past few weeks, Tony's worked his way inside every intelligence agency he can think of- Interpol, the Federal Security Service, the CIA. With this and the data from the SHIELD dump, he's created a rudimentary alert system, designed to monitor any activity from known HYDRA personnel.

It's merely a precaution. He's not sure why he keeps this from James.

"Tony," James tries again, a little more insistent. "You've been down here since seven in the morning."

"So? It's only..." Tony checks the time. "Ten."

"Ten _PM_." He looks unamused. "C'mon, genius. You need to eat. And do something that isn't- well, whatever the hell it is you're doin'. Rhodes is back at the apartment, told me to kick your ass if necessary."

"Please. You can't take me."

"I _taught_ you, jackass. I know all your tricks."

Here's the thing: he isn't very good at saying no to James.

Rogers still looks at him like he wants to lock Tony in a padded room with a cup of chamomile tea and an easy jazz playlist, while Wilson's default setting seems to be 'exhausted, vaguely concerned therapist'. Barton has no sense of self-preservation to speak of, and Natasha still treats him like a cornered animal.

Pepper and Rhodey are... hard. He tries not to think about it.

But James doesn't bother with kid gloves, doesn't treat him like he's going to break or fly off the handle at any moment. James _understands_ in a way that no one else does, in a way that makes his chest hurt.

So Tony sighs, pushing away from the screen to shrug on his jacket. "Fine. This decryption sequence will take another five hours, but there better be pizza. I am coming _straight_ back here if there's no pizza."

"You put _pineapple_ on your pizza. It's _insulting_ ; I refuse to listen to another word outta' your mouth," James says. He claps one hand, warm and steady, on Tony's shoulder as they head out.

He's been trying to get better about physical contact lately.

It's been a while since _touch_ hasn't meant _pain_ \- the instinct to fight or flinch away is still near automatic. Physical Contact is another Real People thing, like Brushing Your Teeth or Polysyllabic Responses To Direct Questions.

But James is _safe_ , has always been safe, so he allows the touch and tries not to think about all the ways that hand could hurt.

Tony doesn't think he was very good at being a Real Person even before all of this. 

◢✥◣

"Okay, so we're between GoldenEye and Die Hard," Steve announces. "Stark, you're the tie-breaker."

They're all clustered in the living room. Sam, Rhodey, and Clint are all fighting for space on the couch, while Steve, having sacrificed the recliner to Natasha, is perched on a folding chair.

James is settled on the floor, back against the wall, nearly shoulder to shoulder with Tony.

Clint bristles. "Wait, what the hell, I suggested The Phantom Menace-"

"-and no one listened because you have, quite possibly, the _worst_ taste in movies I've ever seen. We sacrificed your vote to Die Hard in the name of democracy." Rhodey says. "What's it gonna be, Tones?"

Tony looks up from his fourth slice of pizza. He spares James a quizzical look.

 _Just go with it_ , the other man mouths.

And, okay, he's definitely seen these movies before, but sifting through forty-odd years of memories involves a lot of prioritization. Tony's been more focused on things like his name and the ability to differentiate between friend and foe.

Baby steps, you know?

"Hm," he says, considering. "GoldenEye."

Clint's outrage is both loud and immediate. " _What_? Are you seriously telling me that GoldenEye is a better movie than _Die Hard_? In what fuckin' universe is that lousy, two-bit Limey prick a better hero than John McClane?"

Tony shrugs. "Pierce Brosnan is hot."

" _Christ_ ," Clint shakes his head. "They brainwashed the taste right out of you, I am, like, _so_ disappointed."

"What's your excuse, then?"

Sam goes _ooh, damn_. Rhodey chokes on a laugh.

Clint heaves a mournful sigh. "Honestly, I think I liked you better as a homicidal mute," he says, yelping when Natasha flicks a piece of popcorn across the room and into his eye.

Tony catches James staring and gives him a cautious smile. They're halfway through the movie before he manages to identify the warm feeling in his chest.

Comfort. Huh. 

◢✥◣ 

_Kraków. Winter. This part of the city is old, almost haunted. He can feel this in his bones. He keeps to the shadows as he moves down the street, snow under his boots barely making a sound._

_His destination is a run-down hotel just past a synagogue on the bank of the Vistula River. It is cold; is breath comes in tiny white puffs as he lets himself in through the emergency exit._

_Third floor, first door on the right. Careful, careful. He picks the lock and steps in. There is a box spring mattress with rumpled, stained sheets and a desk crammed in the corner. Papers are strewn on the floor and two mugs sit on the bedside table, still steaming._

_They had been expecting him._

_He turns his attention to the bathroom and listens. Nothing, for a moment, and then... yes. A huff of breath, the quiet shift of a body._

_He draws his gun, and, without preamble, kicks the door in. Inside, a man stands in front of a woman, putting his body between them._

_"Don't move!" The man yells, and there's the sound of a gun being cocked._

_Six knocks the weapon from his hand with one fluid motion, has a hand around his throat in another instant. He squeezes but does not kill, not yet. He has been sent to retrieve information._

_"Don't hurt him," the woman says. She has one hand curled protectively around her stomach, one outstretched to the man currently choking in Six's grasp. "Please, I'll give you whatever you want. Just let us be."_

_Six does not respond. They often do this- beg, plead. It makes no difference. He hauls the man upright and out of the room, throws him to the floor and presses a boot to his chest while he gasps for air._

_"Where is it?" He says, voice low._

_"Don't-" the man rasps, but the woman is already fumbling to retrieve a small box from underneath the bed._

_Tears streak her face and her hand trembles as she gives him a small external hard drive. He inspects it briefly before inserting a small cable into the side port. After a moment, the light flashes green, indicating that the data has been successfully transmitted._

_Mission objective: obtain drive. Mission objective: destroy evidence._

_Without another word, he withdraws his gun once more._

_"Please," the man says, struggling beneath him. "Kill me, but, God, spare her. Please, we- we are expecting a child-"_

_A faint flash of silver, the whisper-soft pop of a single bullet leaving a silenced muzzle, and the man speaks no more._

_Red pools at his feet as he steps towards the woman. She has fallen to her knees, cradling her abdomen, gaping wordlessly at her dead lover, but she does not scream. Six appreciates this. It is cleaner when they do not scream._

_"Have mercy," she says. "Please."_

_He pulls the trigger._

_HYDRA has no use for mercy._

◢✥◣ 

Tony wakes up in a cold sweat with blood in the back of his throat.

It's a long moment before he realizes he isn't alone.

"Nightmares are a bitch, huh?"

He flinches back and up, instinctively going for the steak knife stashed under his pillow.

"Keep the murder in your pants, Jason Bourne. It's just me."

Barton. Disoriented, Tony looks around. The archer is perched on the armchair, legs drawn up to his chest. He's holding a steaming mug in a loose grip.

He swallows, hard, and croaks out. "What are you-"

"The G's down for repairs again. New York public transit is a goddamn nightmare. Steve said I could crash." Clint waves a hand. "You with me?"

Is he? Tony puts a hand on his chest, heart still racing, and fights to get his bearings. Barton is wrong- it wasn't a nightmare; it was a flashback, the kind that straddles the vicious and untenable line between reality and dream. The memory of a Polish winter bites at his skin, the woman's sobs echo in his ears.

Once, he had woken up with tears streaming down his face. James had come for him, had wrapped an arm around his shoulders and let him heave for hours.

"What did I do?" He'd whispered in Russian, still half caught in the memory of a child's empty eyes.

Sometimes, after waking, he came back to himself in pieces- not quite Six and not quite Tony Stark.

"You had no choice. You had no choice," James had murmured. The words were a mantra, a prayer.

_"You had no choice."_

It hadn't made a difference.

Now, the cool metal of the reactor is like a talisman under his palm, an ugly, sick reminder of the fact that he's still alive. He nods.

"Yeah. I'm with you." It comes out a little shakier than he means it to.

Barton doesn't say a word, just gets up and pads into the kitchen, coming back a few minutes later with another mug.

"Hot cocoa," he supplies. "Barnes always gets the good stuff. Dude's got a mean sweet tooth."

Tony sniffs at the mug, wary. The cocoa is good, rich and sweet; the warmth chases away the chill in his bones. "Thanks."

Clint breaks the silence first.

"I get it, you know. Not in the way that Nat or Barnes do, but I get it." he says. "Someone took you out of your head, stuffed something else in its place, _used_ you. Now you're back, and people keep- they keep saying _it wasn't you_ or whatever, but in the end..." He shrugs. "It was still your finger on the trigger." 

"The Battle of New York," Tony says. Clint nods.

He knows, objectively, about Loki and the Chitauri, about how Captain America and his team saved New York from an alien invasion. He's read the briefs, seen the footage. Clint Barton's file had been conspicuously lacking.

"It was, like, eight years ago. Some batshit Norse god took my body for a joyride, made me kill a bunch of people. Should be over it by now, I guess, but government-mandated therapy can only do so much."

"Pretty sure I'd send any sane therapist running for the hills in five minutes flat," Tony snorts.

"Aw, only five minutes? Give yourself some credit, Stark, it'd take at least twenty."

This is why he likes Barton. The man is mouthy and stunningly cavalier about his own welfare, but he doesn't flinch, never misses a shot. He looks certain death in the face, does a backflip, and flips it the bird.

HYDRA broken Tony meticulously, precisely, piece by piece. He is glued together by electricity and metal and scar tissue, more machine than man. There is nothing neat about the way Clint Barton is broken; he is a shattered mirror, a thousand jagged pieces held together with duct tape and spite.

"Twenty, then," Tony amends, then pauses. "Do you ever miss it?"

He watches the emotions play out across Clint's face; for a spy, the man is pathetically easy to read. Anger, guilt, hatred. He doesn't ask for clarification.

"Yeah," he says eventually. "Fuck, I don't know. It was easier."

Not thinking, not feeling. It _is_ easier. Tony hates that he misses it, hates that he longs for the chair and the pain and the awful simplicity of _build point aim shoot_. There are no mission parameters for becoming Tony Stark.

"It was," he says quietly, draining the cup. "You going back to sleep?"

He still doesn't feel completely _whole_ , is still slip sliding between _Six_ and _not-Six_. His body is not fully his. A cigarette will help.

"Nah, man." Clint says, then smirks. "Wanna' play Mario Kart?"

"Sure. Give me a minute. Don't bitch when you lose."

Tony pockets a lighter and stands. 

"Hey, Stark?"

He turns. Clint looks thoughtful, gaze far away as he gnaws on his lower lip.

"You got blood on your hands, your head's fucked up, and you have some, like, weirdly strong feelings about Hot Pockets," he says. "But just in case no one's told you yet: what they did, the things that were _done_ _to you_ \- that's not your fault. Okay?"

It's not the well-meaning platitudes of _it wasn't you_ or _you had no choice_. Because it _was_ him and he might not have had a choice, but that means shit all in the end.

He thinks about the weapon he has been made into, thinks of James and Pepper and Rhodey and all the ways they have fought to put him back together. He thinks of quiet kindness and hot chocolate at two in the morning. In the end, it all comes down to _choice_.

 _The things that were done to you are not your fault_.

Tony opens the window.

"Yeah. Okay."

◢✥◣ 

"What do you mean, _gone_?"

A few days later, Steve is pacing the kitchen floor. He feels ready to hit something.

"I mean he's gone. Split. Vamoosed. Knocked me out, took the fifty bucks in my wallet, and hightailed it outta' here," Clint says with a shrug. He's sporting what Steve knows will be a rather spectacular black eye.

"But he was doing so _well_ ," Steve says. "Why would he just-"

Beside him, Bucky's face is stormy. "You're lying."

"Fuck no, man, what makes you say that? I was making grilled cheese, crusts cut off and everything. Stark ambushed me. My feelings are all hurt right now."

There's a faint mechanical _whir_ and then Bucky's hand is fisted in Clint's shirt. He backs the other man against the refrigerator effortlessly; Steve scrambles to break them apart.

"Tell me where he went," he says flatly. It's not a threat but rather the promise of one. "Now."

Clint, to his credit, doesn't so much as bat an eye. "Stand down, Red October, I told you. Stark's got a couple screws loose, maybe he went to the zoo or something-"

"C'mon, Buck, he said he didn't-"

"Barton." Bucky's fingers tighten imperceptibly. He ignores the pleading look Steve sends his way.

Steve holds his breath for a beat, then another, and Clint sighs, holding up his hands in surrender.

"Fine, fine. You got me," he says, not sounding terribly put out. "Tony's been running a side project for a few weeks, some kind of tracking program, I dunno'. He hacked into worldwide counterintelligence databases, kept eyes on major transportation hubs and shit."

"Who was he looking for?" Bucky asks, brows knitting together.

"Active HYDRA members, I guess. Not that any of them have been stupid enough to come out of hiding."

"Until this morning," Steve says, not liking where this is going.

"Get to the goddamn point, Clint," Bucky growls. "What set him off? Who's he going after?"

Clint looks grim but unapologetic. "Johann Fennhoff."

◢✥◣ 

Tony isn't going to kill a man in broad daylight. That would be stupid.

Instead, Tony's going to torture a man until he _forgets his own fucking name_ and leave him to bleed out in a bathtub.

This is necessary, he tells himself. Fennhoff has information and he does not trust SHIELD to do what needs to be done.

One last mission. That's all this is.

Half of tailing a mark involves blending in, and so, for tonight, the role of 'Six: brainwashed HYDRA Super Soldier specialist' will be played by 'Tony Stark: lanky, slightly greasy, hipster ex-billionaire'. He's traded his customary hoodie for dark jeans and a charcoal button down. There's a sleek folding knife and a Walther PPKS .380 caliber stashed underneath his leather jacket, courtesy of Clint.

From his vantage point inside an unused phone booth, he watches as a taxi pulls up in front of a run down motel in Astoria.

Fennhoff steps out, and it's like his entire body has been doused with ice water.

The memories come too hard, too fast- _chair lights pain metal burning stop stop please_ \- and for a second, Tony doesn't know where he is, _who_ he is. His vision goes sideways and his breath comes in short gasps. He grips the side of the booth for support, the metal denting under his fingers, and- _no_.

No. He's not going to lose it, not here, not now.

He squeezes his eyes shut and shoves it all down, compartmentalizing the urge to _run_ with brutal efficiency. It's easy, far too easy, to let that other half of his brain take over, to slide right back into the ruthless, unfeeling mindset of a killer. This is what HYDRA has made him.

This is why Fennhoff cannot be allowed to live.

Unnoticed, it's simple to pick an access card off of a maintenance worker and take the stairs to the fifth floor. Room 502.

He's halfway there when he hears it.

A scuffle, a bang, the telltale _pop_ of a gun. Tony races down the hall, not bothering with finesse as he shoulders the door open.

Fennhoff is lying face down in a pool of blood.

 _Fuck._  

Time stands still as adrenaline kicks his senses into overdrive.

The scene before him has been drawn into crystal clear focus. Luggage on the bed, unpacked and untouched, coat thrown across the back of a chair. Fennhoff had been inside for maybe five minutes before the attack. He mentally calculates the trajectory of the bullet; this wasn't a sniper hit, the window is still intact, which means that the shooter is likely still in the room.

There's a flash of movement and he turns, gun already drawn.

Before him stands a man, tall and muscular, with pale blond hair and piercing green eyes. He knows who it is instantly.

One.

Pleasantries are exchanged in the form of a fist to the face that sends Tony sprawling, gun clattering from his hand.

He rights himself and lunges forward, grabbing One around the middle and down to the ground. Bracketing the other man's hips between his knees, he delivers a hard blow to the throat, follows up with a swift rabbit punch to the nose.

One gags and twists, knocks him off balance. He rears up, throws Tony sideways and grabs a fistful of his hair; slams his head against the wall once, twice, hard enough to make pain explode at his temple.

Dazed, Tony snaps a leg out to catch One in the back of the knee before reaching for his knife.

Perhaps a better man would turn to reason, but he is not a better man. They are cut from the same cloth, and this is about _survival_.

One drops again, and Tony goes with him, drives the knife down towards his chest. At the last second, One grabs his wrist and bucks, flips him onto his back and sends the knife skittering across the floor.

The room is spinning- definitely a concussion. Blood, sticky and metallic, drips from his brow.

There's a hand around his throat now, and One's eyes are blank. Tony kicks up, loosens the grip just enough to dive for his gun. He manages to get off two shots. The first goes wide, clips One in the arm as he makes a break for the door.

Tony staggers up, fully intent on following, but a shrill scream stops him in his tracks.

In the doorway is a woman, middle-aged, slightly overweight, and very obviously _not a threat_. At her feet is a man, balding and clad in a pair of really unfortunate khaki cargo shorts, who is very obviously dead.

"Oh my God!" She screeches, fumbling for her phone.

Tony grabs her wrist before she can make another move.

"Don't," he says lowly. She just screams again, high-pitched and _completely fucking grating_.

If he were HYDRA, he would kill her.

He is not HYDRA, so he doesn't.

This is what happens next:

The sound of footsteps down the hall, a gun being cocked. The static chirp of a radio and the distant wail of sirens.

"Freeze! Keep your hands where I can see them."

Tony could escape. The three officers advancing towards him would be easy enough to dispatch; the loud woman even easier. Down the hall and out to freedom, it would be another twenty minutes before an alert went out. No one knows his face, he would not be found.

And yet- and yet, there is so much blood on his hands. He's _sick_ of it, sick of death and violence and the way these things are like second nature to him. These people are innocent; they are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

So instead of running, instead of fighting, Tony sinks to his knees, puts his hands over his head.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney..."

This is his choice.

◢✥◣

Police precincts, he thinks, aren't all that different from HYDRA bases.

Same fluorescent lights, same uncomfortable metal. Less Nazi propaganda, but that's about all the NYPD has going for them right now.

"If I say it looks worse than it is, are you going to throw something?"

James looks absolutely _livid_. Tony's never seen anything quite like it. His hands are clenched at his sides, posture rigid and gaze steely. James' anger is as cold as a Siberian winter and, potentially, twice as deadly.

"What were you _thinking_?"

"I was thinking that Fennhoff needed to go," he replies, just a tad defiantly. "But that's not what we need to be talking about right now. I didn't-"

"Do you have _any idea_ what you've done?" James hisses. "The position, the _danger_ , you've put everyone in? You've single-handedly jeopardized this entire operation."

"It wasn't me. James, you _know_ -"

"I know that, Tony, but do you think anyone else does? Do you think anyone else is gonna' believe that a covert HYDRA operative orchestrated two murders in a fuckin' _pay by the hour_ motel in Astoria and framed you for it?" He runs a hand through his hair, jaw working. " _Jesus_."

Tony stares down at the cuffs currently chaining him to the table. They're standard issue, nothing he couldn't break out of in a matter of seconds, but they chafe at his wrists. This interrogation room makes him feel oddly claustrophobic.

"I didn't want this on your hands," he says softly. "The other man- that was an accident."

He can't meet James' eyes. It's not guilt he feels, not exactly, because Fennhoff is dead and that was the entire fucking point, but James' anger is _suffocating_.

"You're an _idiot_. A goddamn idiot with an IQ of 275. I've literally never met anyone as stupid as you, and I once watched Steve try to fistfight a giant slug," James says, his jaw working. "I woulda' had your back. You wanna' go off script, fine, but come to me first. _Fuck_ , Tony, I thought you- I thought that-"

He can't seem to get the words out. All at once, he deflates, sinks into a chair with a huff of breath.

"No one's heard from Johann Fennhoff since the fifties. He was travelling under the name Viktor Ivchenko. Airtight alias, facial recognition's the only reason your system was tripped."

"We need to check if he came in with anyone," Tony says. "One was there, Fennhoff must have been his handler."

James nods. "We're working that angle now, but SHIELD's staying out of it for the most part. They don't need the bad press."

The Avengers aren't on the city's payroll, and vigilante heroics is hardly a lucrative field. If SHIELD's out of the game, then Steve must have turned to someone with money, power, connections- Tony groans as he connects the dots.

"Who called Pepper?"

"Barton did. As punishment. She's going to jab a ballpoint pen through your eye once she's finished making him eat one of her stilettos." James sounds appreciative.

In that moment, Tony hates his entire stupid life, like. Just a little.

"Nat managed to scrape together a cover for you. It's not gonna' hold up to intense scrutiny, but it should be enough to fool the cops," James continues. "You're Anton Edwards, born June 6th, 1994. You're a private entertainer and Ivchenko was your client. He got violent and you acted in self defense."

"Hold on, out of every possible cover, you pick _rentboy_?"

 _Private entertainer._ It explains the motel and his injuries, and Fennhoff certainly _looks_ like the type, but God, Barton is never going to let him hear the end of this.

"If you're expectin' me to apologize, you'll be waiting a while." James stands. "I gotta' go. Pepper's sending someone in to post bail as soon as possible."

He pauses, and there's something unreadable in his eyes. "Tony- I was worried, okay? You- you scared me. Don't do it again. Please."

And Tony wants to reach out, to _touch_ James, to reassure him that it's _fine_. He wants to explain that he's tired of war, that being chained to a desk is better than the alternative.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "James, I-"

There's a hand on his, impossibly gentle.

"It's okay. I mean, I'm still pissed as hell, but I get why you did it." James huffs out a laugh. "Guess I'm doomed to a life of cleanin' up after skinny, reckless assholes who don't know how to pick their battles."

"That sounds like a personal problem," Tony remarks with a grin as James pulls away. That warm feeling is back again. "See you on the other side?"

"Provided you don't end up in a cell."

"Please. I'm too pretty for prison."

"Sam's makin' mac n' cheese tonight," he says. "Don't be late."

James leaves. Tony is alone with his choices and little else.

For the first time in a while, he has people waiting for him. It's enough.

◢✥◣

An officer steps into the room half an hour later.

Her lapel reads 'Clarke', and she's young, maybe in her thirties, hair done up in an intricate swirl of braids. The thoroughly unimpressed look she wears reminds him, vaguely, of Pepper.

"Your papers have been processed, Mr. Edwards," she says with a sniff, moving to unclip the cuffs from around his wrists. "You're being released into the custody of Ms. Potts, and your court date will be set within the week."

He opens his mouth to thank her when the back of his neck prickles, making his stomach drop.

 _Danger_ , his mind screams. It's like a klaxon. _Run_.

Now, Tony can admit to being of a nervous disposition; after everything he's been through, it would be a goddamn _miracle_ if he weren’t a little twitchy.

But this is different, has nothing to do with his problematic grasp on reality. This is an innate, instinctual sense for things that seem out of place: a flash of metal in the sunlight, a stranger seen a little too often on the street. He doesn't know what triggers it, but it doesn't matter- something's wrong.

He throws himself backwards, sending Clarke for her gun. The cuffs snap with a tug and he's darting for the door a second later.

"Make one move and Officer Clarke gets a bullet to the skull."

Tony freezes, turns. Clarke is rooted to the spot, sidearm still drawn. There's tiny red pinprick of a laser sight dead center on her forehead.

He keeps himself very, very still.

"Good," the voice says. "Sit back down, please. I'd hate to make a mess."

Tony does as he's told. Clarke looks at him, wide-eyed and uncomprehending.

"Leave her alone," he says tightly. "You're not going to shoot a cop in the middle of a precinct."

A chuckle. "You have absolutely no idea what I'm capable of. That's your problem, Tony: you've always been too wrapped up in your own genius to see the big picture. Too selfish, too _soft_."

That voice- there's something about that _voice_. His head aches in a way it hasn't in nearly two months, the pain sharp and insistent. He knows this man.

"Cut the bullshit," Tony grits out. "Who are you?"

"You don't know?" The voice turns mocking. "We're practically family."

A beat, and then there's a faint _click_. The one-way mirror turns translucent.

Pain lances through his head as a barrage of memories are shoved into place- _cigar smoke, expensive cologne, the smell of petrichor in an empty cemetery_. He's drowning, buffered by a wave of _pridelovedesperation._

These wounds are old and fresh at the same time, unsettling in their clarity, and Tony, he- _he knows this man_.

From behind the glass, Obadiah Stane smiles serenely down at him.

"It's good to see you, kid. I gotta' say, you've made quite a mess."

He needs to _run_ , every fiber of his being is _screaming_ at him to _leave_ , but One is standing behind Stane, rifle held aloft, the barrel of his gun never wavering.

The price of freedom is Clarke's life.

Tony won't turn an innocent woman into collateral damage.

"Really, Obadiah? HYDRA seems a little melodramatic for your tastes," he says.

Looking back, it's _obvious_ \- the attacks on SI, his recovery from Siberia. The missing piece of the puzzle has always been Stane, has always come down to this single forgotten betrayal.

He feels so fucking _stupid_.

"Oh, Tony. It's so much bigger than that. Don't you see? The world is in _chaos_ , full of bloodshed and pointless hate. It's time to clean house," Stane smiles, and it _hurts,_ just as much as it had the first time around. "You're a futurist, you understand. We need change to survive."

And, no, that isn't right. Stane may be a sociopath, but he's _smart_ , way too smart to buy into HYDRA's manifesto. He's not a true believer, not by a goddamn long shot. There's only one person that Obadiah Stane sticks his neck out for: himself.

Everything clicks into place in a fraction of a second.

"Don't give me that. HYDRA's flavor of change involves _genocide_ ," Tony snarls. "A weapons manufacturer stands to gain a hell of a lot from that. Is that it? HYDRA brings the world to its knees and you fucking _profit_? That's low, Stane, even for you."

"It's just good business," Stane says. "Your father didn't understand either. A shame, that."

Tony doesn't remember his parents the way he should, the way he once did, but there's something about Stane's tone that makes anger furl deep in his gut.

"Oh, please. You can't even _kill me_ right," Tony spits. "You've spent your _life_ riding on the coattails of greater men, stealing glory from the shadows like the pathetic snake you are. You're not going to win, Obadiah, so what the fuck do you want?

"I want you to shut up and listen, otherwise this young woman is going to die." Stane's voice has turned hard and ugly. "Do we understand each other?"

Next to him, Clarke shakes her head. Tony grits his teeth and nods.

"I hate getting my hands dirty, you know." Stane continues with a sigh "But you and your ragtag group of _heroes_ were getting too close for comfort. The future is here, Tony, and you're an important part of it."

He pulls a book from his pocket and leafs through it, studying a page before nodding to himself. "Now, I don't speak Russian, so excuse my pronunciation, but this should do the trick."

This is familiar in a way that makes his stomach turn. _You are HYDRA's guiding hands_.

" _Iron_."

No. _No_.

" _Desert._ "

Tony jerks back as though he's been struck. There's a buzzing in his head, a cold fog creeping down his spine. _Run_ , the voice in his mind begs, but Clarke is still _there_ ; he refuses to have her blood on his hands-

" _Seven_."

Another twist of the knife, and the buzzing is louder now. The words are chipping away at his piecemeal identity, making it hard to think. He slams a fist down on the table; it buckles under the impact-

" _Yearning_."

Whispers join the clamor in his head, urgent and commanding. Those precious things that he's fought tooth and nail to keep- _self feeling memory_ \- slip through his grasp, faster with every passing second. _Yield_ , the whispers say, saccharine sweet. _Submit_.

Tony looks over at Clarke. She meets his gaze, terrified.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "I'm so sorry."

He wrenches himself upright, movements slow and uncoordinated. The door, he needs to get to the _door_ -

" _Quiet_."

He stumbles. The cold has carved out a place inside his body, has invaded every inch of his senses. There's nothing left to hold onto. He tries to remember faces, names- _dark skin broad smile, red hair blue eyes_ \- but he doesn't know who he is, what he's doing.

His heart slams against his ribcage- _hot chocolate crooked grin, soft voice smell of cardamom_ \- and his body is held taut an inch from the door. There is white noise in his ears, lightning under his skin- _blond hair strong shoulders, steady hands holding him up._

Underneath that, there is something important, something vital- _smell of cigarettes cool metal shoulder to shoulder safe safe safe_ \- but he can't, he doesn't-

He is falling apart at the seams, suspended in time.

" _Blue_."

The world falls silent on an exhale.

"Status report, Specialist."

Six straightens.

"Functional. Ready to comply."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and, hey, give yourself a sticker if you saw that very obvious plot twist coming from a mile off.
> 
>  
> 
> comments mean the world to me- questions, feedback, concrit, etc. are always welcome. 
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](https://ventrie.tumblr.com)


	9. drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which bucky has a Moment, rhodey takes a trip down memory lane, and steve doesn't like robots
> 
> lil' bit of an interlude here. shit's been busy, guys, you know how it is. thanks again for all the love and support!

Bucky puts his fist through a wall and all Steve can think about is how they're probably not going to get their security deposit back.

Tony had fallen off the map twelve hours ago, leaving only a broken pair of handcuffs and a dead police officer behind.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened.

"Shit," Sam mutters. Beside him, Natasha's face is stony.

"It's Stane," she says. "The footage from the precinct has been wiped, but surveillance from a bodega across the street shows a car leaving twenty minutes before Tony disappeared. The plates are a match."

Steve runs a hand through his hair. "He's been one step ahead of us the entire time. Who wants to bet that the plane was bugged?"

"Ain't gonna' put money on a sure thing, Cap," Clint says morosely. "Jim just texted, he's hopping on the next flight out from DC."

"And Pepper?"

"In protective custody. SHIELD has her, Steve," Natasha replies. "This has become a threat to national security. Fury's not going to tiptoe around that."

In less than twenty-four hours, par the course of Steve's _entire goddamn life_ , this situation has spun completely beyond his control.

"Okay," he says, doing his best to shove the little bubble of frustration down and out of sight. "Let's recap: what do we know?"

"Yesterday morning, Stark received intel that Johann Fennhoff, travelling under the alias Viktor Ivchenko, had touched down at LaGuardia. He followed Fennhoff to a motel with the intention of, uh, extracting information," Sam says.

He politely omits Clint's involvement, something that Steve is grateful for. This is hard enough without in-fighting.

"He got there and found Fennhoff dead, shot by another HYDRA specialist. Tony called him 'One'. SHIELD's working on putting a name to the face, but the dude's a ghost," Clint adds. "They fought, and a civilian was killed in the line of fire. Tony turned himself in."

Bucky picks at a piece of drywall wedged in the plating of his left hand.

"After calling Pepper, I talked to him, gave him his alibi. Stane probably intercepted the call and beat her to the punch." His voice sounds oddly detached. "Forty-five minutes later, the officer in charge of his release, Danielle Clarke, was dead, and both Tony and Stane were in the wind."

And, yeah, minus the two hours Steve had spent talking Bucky out of a manhunt, that's about the size of it.

"We're operating under the assumption that Stane reactivated his programming," he says. "Nat, what do we know about this guy?"

Natasha pulls out a tablet and flicks the screen to life.

"Obadiah Stane, born December 4th, 1950. He had a difficult childhood- his mother died in childbirth; his father was a gambler and a drunk who committed suicide when he was eight," she rattles off. "He's something of a genius- got his MBA from NYU Stern at the age of nineteen, began working for Stark Industries six months later. He rose to the top of the corporate ladder quickly, eventually catching the attention of Howard Stark."

"The two became business partners," she continues. "From there, Stane was a semi-permanent fixture in Tony's life, often acting as a mentor in the place of Howard, who, by all accounts, was a distant and authoritative man."

The Howard he's known had been volatile at best; to Steve, the phrase _distant and authoritative_ sounds more like a euphemism for _flagrantly abusive asshole_.

"After the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark, Stane was in charge of the company until Tony turned twenty-one." Her lips thin a little as she reads. "This is where it gets complicated." 

"Hold on, it wasn't complicated _before_ this?" Sam asks.

"Not even close," Natasha says. "Tony took over as CEO in 1991. At that time, he had a bit of a- well, a _reputation_ , let's put it that way. Parties, drugs, an impressive rap sheet of drunken disorderlies, et cetera. At least two sex tapes. The man had two PhDs and eighty nine patents under his belt before the age of twenty five, but he was also young and tremendously unstable."

"Easy to manipulate, you mean," Bucky mutters.

She nods. "If you had the kind of sway that Stane did, yes. Before this mess, Tony had been sorting through and flagging data from SI servers. It looks as though Stane authorized at least 250 discrete, highly suspicious dealings, the bulk of which were issued within the span of fifteen years, from 1988 to 2003. All but six involve technology developed by Tony himself."

"Stark was being used way before HYDRA got their hands on him," Sam says quietly.

There's a stretch of silence while they all digest that.

Steve kind of feels like throwing up. Judging by the vaguely nauseous look on Sam's face, he's not the only one.

Clint claps his hands together.

"Okay, so, somewhere along the way, Stane hooks up with Pierce, who is all like: 'Neat tie! By the way, wanna' take over the world?'. Stane agrees, because he's a power-hungry bastard, and they cook up this plot to orchestrate the collapse of Western civilization."

"I dunno', man. Stane seems too smart to drink the HYDRA Kool Aid," Sam says. "How does he come out on top here?"

"War profiteering is a high-yield venture," Natasha points out. "Stane could turn a hell of a profit by engineering World War III and betting on the right horse."

Bucky looks ready to go another round with the wall. "Why now? What was he waiting for?"

"Best laid plans go awry," Steve says.

"Yup," Clint pops the 'p'. "Afghanistan was a cover, but Stane didn't plan on the reactor. He definitely didn't plan on the Chitauri invasion or our resident automaton jumping ship."

He jerks his chin in Bucky's direction. "Your epic bromance threw a wrench in the works. I'd hazard a guess and say that's why they put Stark in deep freeze. Cho said it'd been at least four years."

"Project Insight must've been his original plan," Sam muses out loud. "After we exposed HYDRA, Stane had to wait until the coast was clear. He used us to pull Tony out of Siberia without raising suspicion, then kicked back and waited for the opportune moment."

"Then what the hell is his play?" Steve says. "There must be a thousand different ways this could pan out. Stane's gonna make his move soon, and we don't have the time or the resources we need to cover every angle."

There's a beat before Natasha speaks up.

"I might know someone who can help."

◢✥◣

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it'd help, Pep," James Rhodes says. He'd gotten to Steve's apartment an hour ago, still in uniform and fresh off a redeye into JFK.

Pepper Potts is on a video conference from a SHIELD safehouse in upstate New York. She looks as put together as always, but Steve can see that her eyes are red.

"There's a reason he asked to be deactivated, Jim," she says. "That was his decision. It doesn't- it doesn't feel right."

"Nothing about this is right," he says gently. "But JARVIS might be our only shot at stopping Stane before it's too late."

Natasha had explained the concept of JARVIS as best she could.

"From what SHIELD understands, JARVIS is more than just a computer program. He's able to learn, able to process an incredible amount of information at once. He can, to an extent, _feel_ ," she'd said. "At the age of twenty nine, Tony Stark had essentially created a sentient being." 

And Steve has _feelings_ about that, okay? Call him old-fashioned, but reactivating a near-omniscient AI ten years after said AI essentially committed _suicide_ seems like a bad idea.

He doesn't like robots. Sue him. 

There's a tinny whistle of air as Pepper sighs. "I know, I know. It's just- and, _God_ , this sounds ridiculous, but JARVIS is Tony's _family_. I don't want to disrespect his final wish."

"We're his family too, Pepper," Rhodes says. "All of us. And we're fresh outta' options."

Pepper presses her lips together in a thin line.

"Fine," she relents after a moment. "JARVIS' servers are in storage with the rest of Tony's stuff, in a warehouse just outside of Malibu. I'll send you the address along with the access code and override key."

"Thank you," Rhodes sighs.

"You bring that idiot back, okay?"

She disconnects the call before he can respond, and then it's just the two of them.

Steve stays quiet, pretends not to notice the open grief on Rhodes' face.

The loss of a friend, a _brother_ , is a feeling he knows intimately- it's raw, an open wound. He remembers seeing Bucky fall off the train, seeing him seventy years later on that _damn_ bridge. He remembers _you're my mission_ and _I'm with you 'til the end of the line_ ; wishes, more than anything, that he could take this pain from James Rhodes.

"We're gonna' fix this, Colonel. I swear to you. We _will_ make this right."

Rhodes doesn't reply for a long moment. "I let him die once, Cap. Never again."

He stands.

"Grab Romanov. We're wheels up to Malibu in an hour." 

◢✥◣ 

Bucky thumbs through the file again like he hasn't already memorized the entire damn thing.

He feels restless, ready to crawl out of his skin. Steve and Natasha had left with Rhodes in the dead of night and are currently en route to Tony's warehouse. He'd wanted to go too, of course, but Steve had argued against it. If Stane strikes while they're away, the rest of the team is New York's only line of defense.

Staying behind is a tactical decision, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

There are footsteps outside. He stills, listening, one hand straying to the gun at his hip. Shuffling, a muffled _ow, fuck_ , and the door clicks open.

"Sorry I'm late. Brought bagels," Barton announces, gesturing to a paper bag. "N' coffee."

Most of said coffee is spilt down one pant leg. Bucky grits his teeth and doesn't respond.

"You're pissed, I get it," Barton says, heaving a sigh and making his way to the kitchen table. "I'm pissed too."

Bucky ignores him. He's very, very good at that. He's had a lot of practice.

"Silent treatment, really? Very mature," Barton sniffs. "C'mon, I got your favorite. Pumpernickel and plain with the works, extra capers."

Considering that the alternative to the silent treatment is a knife in Barton's throat, Bucky thinks he's doing pretty well.

"I promised Cap you'd eat. Also, that you wouldn't murder anyone. You're making my life, like, _super_ difficult here."

"Oh, am I makin' _your_ life difficult?" Bucky snaps. "How _rude_ of me. Awful sorry for the inconvenience."

"I did what I did. I don't regret that," Barton shoots back, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Stark was gonna' go, with or without my blessing. You know that."

"What I _know_ is that you gave him a gun and pointed him in the direction of a goddamn _madman_. Do you have any fuckin' idea what these people are capable of, Barton? Do you know what they did to him?"

"I know enough. I know what it's like to want revenge."

Bucky lets out a hoarse, bitter laugh. "No. No, you really don't."

"They used him. They _violated_ him, kept taking and taking until there was nothing left, and then they took some more. I know what it's like to want the man responsible for that dead."

"Tony's gone," Bucky spits, hand curling into a fist. "He's gone, and it's your-"

"It's HYDRA's fault," Barton says. "I let him go, put him in danger, and, fine, that's on me. But don't think for _one fuckin' second_ that Obadiah Stane wouldn't've gotten to him eventually."

And Barton- Barton's _right_ , as much as it pains Bucky to admit it. He's not angry with Clint, not really. It's Stane, _HYDRA_ , who he hates, who he wants to _destroy_.

In a fraction of a second, Bucky's senses are dialed to a hundred; he can hear the uptick in Barton's breathing from across the room, can feel the faint vibration of the subway three stories down. He sucks in a deep breath and then another, heart pounding in his chest.

This isn't anxiety, not exactly, because he knows that well. It's more primal than that- an urge to lash out, an urge to _fight_. A survival mechanism, sharpened to a fine point.

It turns out that one super fun side effect of spending seventy years as a wind-up gun for hire is, _surprise_ , the occasional inexplicable bout of rage.

They don't put that kind of shit in the user manual.

Getting a handle on these feelings before they spiral out of control is an exercise in restraint, one of the very first tricks his therapist had taught him. He closes his eyes, stays as still as possible.

In, out. Count to ten. Breathe.

"You with me, man?" Clint's voice breaks through the fog of fury clouding his mind. "I'd love a heads up if you're about to, like, go all Russian murder doll on me."

"I'm fine," he says. It takes effort. "Sorry."

There's a pause. "It's cool. Tony's, uh. My friend too. Total jackass, definitely cheats at Mario Kart, but. Yeah."

He thinks of Tony- stubborn, capable Tony, with his quiet kindness and endless brilliance. Tony, lithe and dangerous, who likes cartoons and takes his coffee with an alarming amount of milk and sugar. They're broken in the same way, hopelessly intertwined by bloodshed and shared tragedy.

In, out. He counts to ten and exhales.

Bucky despises absolutes, isn't certain of much in this world, but he knows that there is very little that he wouldn't do for Tony Stark. Maybe that's wrong, maybe he's bordering on a dangerous level of co-dependence. It doesn't matter.

He's never claimed to be a model of mental health.

They sit in silence for a few minutes until Clint shoves the bag in his direction.

"Eat your bagel, asshole."

◢✥◣

The warehouse isn't what Steve had expected.

It's filled with _stuff_ : pieces of scrap metal, boxes upon boxes of patent trophies. Two albums that feature a toothy, disheveled boy, lovingly rendered in all sorts of places. _Tony at the zoo, age five_ and _Tony and Ana, Christmas 1976._

He's surprised to see photos of Peggy. There's one, clearly a candid, where she's holding Tony as a toddler. They're in a kitchen, her mouth is open in a laugh. Tony has his face scrunched up like he's about to sneeze. They're completely covered in flour.

Steve traces the picture, a faint smile on his face, before setting it down and continuing on.

There are sheaths of newspaper clippings, an old trunk full of well-worn MIT hoodies. He nearly trips over a small crate filled with an odd assortment of items- a ceramic pineapple, a Colorado license plate. Inside jokes, maybe?

Remnants of another life, another man.

The truth is that this place is a tomb, a memorial, meticulously organized and heartbreakingly transparent in its sentimentality. If he'd doubted it before, Steve knows now: Pepper Potts had loved Tony, deeply and unapologetically. There's no other explanation for any of this.

"Steve," Natasha comes up behind him, silent as always. "Look."

She gestures to a box neatly labelled 'JARVIS'. It looks a little small to house the world's most complex supercomputer, but Steve's hardly the expert here. He cuts around the packing tape and opens it up, peering inside to see-

"A tie?" He asks, bewildered.

It's silk and a deep red color, obviously expensive, nestled alongside a dozen other things: a tape recorder, a leather bound journal, a pair of cufflinks. He gives Natasha a confused look.

"Edwin Jarvis," Rhode says, making him jump. "Tony's butler, practically raised him. He was more of a father than Howard Stark ever was."

There's a sharp note in his voice, as if he's daring Steve to argue.

"We were friends during the war," Steve says cautiously. "He was a good man."

Rhodes barks out a laugh. "I'd applaud your appalling judgment of character, but you might wanna' take off those rose-tinted glasses, Cap. That _good man_ was a selfish prick who could barely stand to be in the same room as his only son-"

Natasha puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Gentlemen. Another time, I think," she cuts in. "I found our man."

The servers housing JARVIS stretch along the far wall, a solid bank of machinery about a head taller than Steve. A large plane of glass dominates one corner of the room. It might be a computer monitor, or maybe just a really abstract piece of art.

Again: not an expert. He's barely gotten the hang of Angry Birds.

Rhodes seems to know what he's doing, though, flicking a small switch before tapping on the glass twice. He enters an access code that draws up a menu, and then the screen reads 'AUTHORIZE OVERRIDE ALPHA-06T7E9L?'.

"Well," Rhodes mutters before inserting a flash drive into the bank. "Here goes nothing."

For a moment, nothing happens, and then there's a quiet _whir_. The warehouse is suddenly bathed in a blue light.

"Huh," Steve mutters because there are _holograms_ right in front of them, strings of numbers flying before his eyes, and, really, _huh_ kind of sums it up. The numbers are like magic; they look real enough to touch.

Technology has come a hell of a long way, but this is leaps and bounds beyond anything he's ever seen.

"It's easy to forget how brilliant he was," Natasha murmurs beside him. "It was even easier to forget that he was a person under that playboy façade."

"You never mentioned that you knew him."

She smiles wryly. "SHIELD kept tabs. He didn't know me."

"Reboot's gonna' take a few minutes," Rhodes says. "We should check in with everyone back in New York, make sure that Barnes hasn't brained Clint with a bookend or something."

Steve winces. "We don't have bookends."

"Clint just texted, everyone's still alive. Sam's meeting with them in an hour to go over data that SHIELD pulled from CCTV," Natasha says, standing fluidly. "Speaking of which, I have to make a call."

She leaves, and Steve kinds of wants to tell her to stay. He leans against a shelf, resists the urge to fidget.

"Jim, listen," he starts. "About Howard-"

Rhodes sighs, holds up a hand. "Don't. I was out of line, man. Past week has been stressful."

"Stressful seems like an understatement," Steve chuckles. He pauses, considering.

"You can ask. I know you want to."

"Howard. Was he- did he-"

"Smack Tony around?" Rhodes says, a terrible, bitter note in his voice. "Yeah. Howard Stark was a heavy drinker and a deeply unhappy man. Fucker had a mean right hook."

When Steve doesn't reply, he continues:

"Steve, I met Tony back when he was fourteen and underfed and ready to pick a fight with anyone who so much as _looked_ at him sideways," he says. "When Howard wasn't beating on him, he was ignoring him. When he wasn't doing that, he was letting Tony know he'd never measure up to the great _Captain America._ Kid had a chip on his shoulder the size of a city block."

 _Jesus_. The memories Steve has of his own father aren't pleasant- Joseph Rogers had been a mean drunk of a man, but he'd died when Steve was six, too soon to do any lasting damage.

He _hates_ that Howard had used him to break that little boy with the dark eyes and wild hair, hates that he's grateful Tony doesn't remember. He closes his eyes, wonders: _how do we forgive our fathers_?

Some people, he thinks, are never meant to become parents.

"I didn't know Howard well; never thought he could be the kind of man capable of something like that," Steve says quietly. "But people change. Sometimes not always for the better. This isn't the legacy I wanted."

Rhodes stares at him for a long moment, something dark and unreadable in his expression.

"You're not nearly as much of a dick as I thought you'd be," he says finally.

The tension evaporates in an instant.

Steve snorts. "I aim to please."

Suddenly, there's a quiet chime. The blue light seems to pulse and grow, a complicated shift of nonsense binary that moves around them like a living thing. Rhodes is on alert in a split second.

"Uh, JARVIS?" He calls out. "You awake?"

"One would have to be asleep in the first place," a smooth, British voice replies, making Steve nearly jump out of his skin.

Goddamn _robots_.

Rhodes seems relieved. "It's good to hear your voice, man."

"I assume there is a reason I have been reactivated?"

JARVIS may be a computer program, but there's no mistaking the cold note in his tone.

Steve is very, very out of his depth.

"Yeah. There's, um. A situation." Rhodes swallows. "We need your help."

"I believe I have made my wishes on this matter clear, Colonel. Following Mr. Stark's death in 2008 and my assistance in the Battle of New York, my primary protocols have been summarily disengaged," JARVIS says, the words clipped. "I am, in effect, _retired_."

"That's just it, J," he says. "This is- it's about Tony."

He takes a deep breath.

"He's alive."

◢✥◣

His new handler is a bald man with an imposing build and oil slick smile. He wears an expensive suit and tells Six to call him Sir.

They are taken to a warehouse in Harlem, down to a basement filled with machines. He does not recall being transported to New York. He wonders where the doctor is.

"It's remarkable," Sir says. "Such an _elegant_ design."

Six is seated on a table, shirtless. His handler stands above him, scanning a tablet. He has told Six to _shut up_ and _stay still_ , so that is what he does.

These are simple instructions, but he cannot help but flinch when Sir reaches down to trace the casing of the star in his chest.

He is backhanded for his disobedience. Sir wears an ornate golden ring on his right hand that cuts into his cheek.

"Don't move," Sir hisses. He taps the star. "Tell me about this."

Six is aware enough to know that there are holes in his memory, holes made by the chair and the electricity under his skin. There are things he knows but has no recollection of learning, feelings that ricochet across his mind without provocation.

In the past, it had been easy to accept this. He is a tool, and tools do not ask questions.

It is more difficult now.

He hesitates, and Sir hits him again. Blood trickles down the side of Six's face. "Tell me."

"I-" He pauses. _Don't_ , a voice urges. "I do not know. Its function is essential to my operation."

"You expect me to believe that this is a _pacemaker_?" His handler scoffs. A strong hand grips his jaw, forces his head up. "Don't lie to me, boy."

And Six will not- _cannot_ \- disobey a direct order. He has survived because he is strong, because he is loyal. HYDRA does not hesitate to punish insolence. That knowledge does nothing to stop this strange _feeling_ welling in the back of his throat, clawing at his chest.

There is a reason that the star must be kept a secret, but, like so many things, it is just out of reach.

"I do not know," he repeats after a moment. His head throbs. "I have never been permitted to analyze it."

Sir stares at him for a long moment, patting his cheek once before letting go.

"Fine," he says, voice sticky-sweet. "Analyze it. Use the lab. I want a working prototype in forty eight hours."

Six nods and stands. The door clangs shut.

He hadn't lied.

He hadn't told the whole truth, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, questions, yelling, etc. all welcome. 
> 
> by the way, i _might_ be in the market for a beta and/or someone to bounce ideas off of. let me know if you're interested! 
> 
> shoot me a message on [tumblr](https://ventrie.tumblr.com)


	10. prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which the author actually remembers this story exists, the soviets start a drinking club, and One makes a guest appearance as a punching bag
> 
> just gonna fuckin.......,, slide this update in seven months late.

Bucky can't get drunk.

It's not for a lack of trying, honestly. He's on his ninth Russian Standard and not even buzzed, because, _hello_ , genetically engineered metabolism. Fantastic for all you can eat sushi, terrible for getting shitfaced at ten in the morning on a Tuesday.

He's something of a regular at AJ's, if only because Steve refuses to set foot in here on principle.

The bar is owned by an ill-tempered Albanian man named Fisnik. It's three blocks away from the apartment, situated in between an abandoned car lot and a 24/7 Atomic Wings.

It may or may not be a front for the Albanian mafia.

If Bucky had to hazard a guess, he'd say that AJ's hasn't been remodeled since the late eighties. If the semi-permanent stench of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and urine is anything to go by, it hasn't been cleaned in far, far longer.

It's cramped and dimly lit inside; the weak morning light filtering through the dusty windows gives the place a hazy appearance. There's a pool table that no one ever uses because the coin slot is jammed and someone broke a cue stick over the bouncer's head six months ago. The jukebox by the door only plays two albums: _Make It Big_ by Wham! and _Cosmic_ _Thing_ by the B-52's.

All in all, AJ's is the kind of place that you go when you want to: A) get alcohol poisoning for under fifty dollars, B) disappoint your parents, or C) buy cocaine laced with ketamine and baking soda.

Or, you know, some wild combination of the three.

He _loves_ it.

Today, there are exactly three people here: Bucky, a half-unconscious Latvian businessman that has been attempting to light a cigar for the past five minutes, and a provocatively dressed, middle-aged bartender named Lila.

Lila is a very nice lady who sells badly made fake IDs to NYU students for an appalling amount of money. She has three kids and has only tried to sleep with Bucky twice.

The sound of a stool scraping against the floor shatters his brief solace. Bucky doesn't even bother looking up as someone settles in next to him.

"Hey, handsome. What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"

He briefly considers bashing his head against the bar.

"Not in the mood to talk, Romanov," he says finally.

"Who said anything about talking? I'm here to drink," Natasha says. She signals to Lila for another round.

His scowl deepens. "Find a different bar."

"Pass," she replies airily. "Cockroaches, organized crime, _and_ watered down vodka? Sounds like my idea of a party."

"Okay, then I'm out," he says, draining his glass and moving to stand. "And for the record, Fisnik has never been indicted. It's all very circumstantial."

"James-"

"What do you _want_ , Natalia?" He snaps. Drunk Cigar Man gives them a bleary glare, and Bucky lowers his voice. "I'm playin' by the rules like a good little soldier. You don't need to worry about me doin' anything stupid."

"That's not what I'm worried about," she murmurs, bringing a hand up to his shoulder, and he _hates_ the tender note in her voice, hates it even more because he knows she's being genuine.

The Black Widow is many things. _Genuine_ isn't one of them.

Natasha Romanov is a different story.

"I'm fine," he says, deflating. "Jesus, I'm _fine_. I just-"

Bucky falters, grits his teeth. He's not great with words- he used to be, once, maybe, but that was a lifetime ago. These days, he's more of a 'point and shoot' kind of guy.

"You're worried," she says. He grimaces.

"I'm _angry_ ," he corrects. "And worried. And frustrated."

Look at him, talking about his feelings like an Adult Human Being. His therapist would be _so_ proud.

Lila brings their drinks, fixes them with a suspicious stare. The staff of AJ's isn't known for their love of strangers, and when she's not actively trying to blend in, Natasha is the kind of stupid-beautiful that tends to attract a lot of attention.

She takes a sip, traces one finger around the rim of her glass. "You're afraid."

If Bucky's knows anything, it's that there's no point in lying to a liar. He sighs.

"Yeah. That too."

"There's no shame in that," she says. "I'm afraid too."

"We weren't built for fear," he says darkly.

"We weren't," she agrees. "And yet here we are."

And yet there they are. They weren't built for fear- they were built for a purpose, built with a shelf life, and Bucky finds that he can't look at her; he's too raw, too tangled up. Even after four years back inside his own head, it's hard to _feel_ without wanting to _break_.

He doesn't get how other people do it.

"I don't remember a lot of it," she remarks after a moment. "Defecting, I mean."

"That isn't what we're-"

She holds up a hand, effectively silencing him. "There were no wipes, no torture. And why would there be? There was no need. They made me, they _owned_ me. My reality was whatever they said it was."

They are two pieces of the same graphic puzzle, he and Natasha. They don't talk about this, about the past and the blood on their hands. _Red in the ledger_ , she'd said once. He'd laughed at the idea.

There are, after all, certain debts that can't be settled.

"Piecing together what was real and what wasn't- that came later," she says. "The concept of autonomy is strange, isn't it? So easily taken for granted. I don't remember defecting, James, but I do remember _why_."

"Barton?" Bucky guesses.

Natasha shakes her head, faint smile on her lips. "No, though that is the official story. Allowing a crime-fighting acrobat turned secret agent to take me down was only a nominal blow to my pride."

"Then who...?"

"A little girl. Five years old." Natasha looks away. "Her father was a mole, and my primary mission. She was a loose end. You understand."

Bucky does, even though he wishes he didn't. He takes another sip of his drink and studies her face carefully, content to play along for the time being.

"She was supposed to die in her sleep, but there was- there was a noise, maybe. She woke up to me standing over her. I froze, and she just- just _looked_ at me, James. Didn't scream, didn't plead. Just stared."

A pause. "And I killed her."

There's no guilt in her voice, only a heavy kind of sorrow. Acceptance, maybe, or something like it.

Bucky had tried, once, to make a list, tried to itemize his past and the body count that came with it. It had been a pointless, pathetic attempt at self-flagellation, and it hadn't helped.

He doesn't understand why Natasha thinks this will either.

"Little by little, my world began to unravel," she continues. "I began to _question_ things. I didn't know who I was or why that was so terrifying. I didn't understand how taking one little girl's life could _break_ me in the way that it did."

"I left a year later."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you needed to hear it," she says. "And because I needed the reminder. He'll come back to us. It just takes the right motivation."

"You don't know that for sure," he says.

He takes a sip, and the vodka burns his throat on the way down.

This is what Bucky _does_ know: life is full of uncertainties, from little things like the weather and New York's failing public transit system, to bigger things like living through the day. On good days, he tries to relish in the unknown. He's spent enough time without the luxury of doubt, with only the cold clarity of HYDRA and a mission and nothing else.

But this? This is different, this is _Tony_. He can't afford _maybes_.

She puts a hand on his shoulder. "I do."

A ring cuts through their little moment. In a fraction of a second, Natasha has been replaced by the Black Widow.

"Romanov," she says by way of greeting. "Yes. Understood. We'll be there in fifteen."

She ends the call and drains her glass in one smooth motion.

"JARVIS got a hit."

Bucky stands, pulse thudding in his ears. "Is it-"

"Not Stane," she says. "The HYDRA specialist known as One has been taken into SHIELD custody. We're needed at headquarters."

◢✥◣

"Okay, this is what I wanna' know: what's up with every Super Soldier being, like, ridiculously hot?" Clint's saying. "Do you guys have to send in headshots before they shoot you up with Muscle Juice?"

"Yeah, but you can skip the application process by falling off a train," Bucky says, leaning against the doorframe. He takes a sip of lukewarm coffee and gives his metal fingers a little wiggle. "Side effects include loss of limb and tragically chiseled cheekbones."

"Already got a set of janky ears, what's a bionic arm or three?" Clint grins, yelping when Natasha thwaps him upside the head on her way in.

"Ignore James," she says to Wilson. "He's mad because his liver is unfairly efficient and I won't let him run away to join the mob."

Bucky makes a face at her turned back.

"Guess that's why you smell like the floor of a strip club," Sam remarks. "So, d'you recognize our henchman of the week?"

They've convened in an observation room behind a one-way mirror. On the other side is a wiry man with close-cropped blond hair and a pale complexion. He has broad, handsome features and has been deeply unconscious since they arrived.

Bucky stares at him for a long moment before shrugging.

"Specialist. I trained him. If we were ever paired together, I don't remember."

Sam nods. "Figured as much. JARVIS flagged him on a traffic cam this morning and we tracked him about two miles outside of a Hammer Industries warehouse in _Yonkers_ , of all places. SHIELD has a few teams sweeping the site now, but all we've found so far is a metric fuckton of packing peanuts and a few thousand of those novelty phone cases they shell out at job fairs."

"Could be a trap," Natasha muses.

"That's the working theory, but the guy's clean. No weapons, no trackers- not even so much as a kill-pill."

Bucky's doesn't mention that HYDRA's kill-pill is a bullet to the base of the skull, not a cyanide capsule in a fake tooth. It seems rude.

"Niels Fredrich Lyon Andersen."

They all turn as Steve steps in.

"Gesundheit," Clint snickers. "Welcome to the party, Cap."

Steve manages a grin that looks more like a wince than anything else. After almost fifty hours on his feet, he looks less 'Captain America' and more 'Red, White, and Blue Brick Shithouse Desperately In Need Of A Nap'.

"Sorry about the delay," he says. "Went out to assist with strike team cleanup, and I guess the Q train's backed up or something. Traffic was a nightmare."

"Hey, no worries," Sam says, clapping him on the back. "Beats watching some Ken-doll mercenary take a nap."

"Right, that Ken-doll? He was a Danish biologist, made headlines a while back for this big breakthrough in gene editing," Steve says. "JARVIS finally got facial recog from the background of a selfie someone snapped outside the hotel. In 2007, Andersen was attending a biomedical conference in Antwerp when a bomb went off. The blast killed close to thirty people. He's listed among the casualties."

"And yet, here he is, very obviously not dead," Clint says with an exaggerated sigh. "Man, you just can't kill people like you used to." 

"I could fix that," Bucky mutters. "Just sayin'. As a Plan B. I could, like, _absolutely_ fix the whole 'not dead' thing."

"Or we could interrogate him," Sam says. "Y'know, like normal, _completely sane_ people. Dude has to have some clue what Stane's game is."

Clint kicks a foot onto the table. "For the record, I'm on board with Barnes' idea."

Natasha scoffs. "To absolutely no one's surprise."

"Why do you people never let me have any fun?" Clint's voice is dangerously close to a whine.

"Because your definition of fun tends to involve _explosions_ and _mass panic_ ," Sam points out.

"One time, that was _one time_ -"

"Vegas, Barton, do I really need to bring up Vegas-"

"Fine, _twice_ , but I still think we should shoot him-"

The back of Steve's neck is turning a very alarming shade of pink, a telltale sign that he's about to _completely fucking lose it_ , and,  _Jesus Christ_ , Bucky does _not_ need this right now.

" _Okay_ ," he barks out, startling Sam and Clint out of their pissing match. "We're all tired, we're all on edge. Cry about it later, but what we need is right now is information. Until we have it, shooting this asshole is a _last resort_ , okay?"

"Kissass," Clint mutters. Natasha cuffs him upside the head again without even blinking. 

"Agreed," she says smoothly. "Apologies from the peanut gallery. Who's going in first?"

"Me," Steve says without hesitation, even as Natasha shakes her head.

"Steve, you're the last person we should send. HYDRA probably has an entire indoctrination seminar on how to resist Captain America and his naughty, naughty capitalist ways."

"Nat's right," Bucky adds. "Even if we use more, uh. _Unorthodox_ methods, there's no guarantee he'll give us anything of value."

"We're _not_ resorting to torture," Steve says flatly. "Absolutely not."

Sam gnaws on his lip and looks between the two of them.

"I might have an idea," he says. "But you ain't gonna' like it."

◢✥◣ 

"You're right," Bucky says. "I hate it."

Sam gives him a flat look.

"If you have a better idea, I'm all ears, Barnes."

Bucky _doesn't_ , which is the problem. Asking nicely isn't going to get One to talk, any more than beating him within an inch of his life will. HYDRA might be the lowest of the low, but they're damn thorough when it comes to torture resistance training.

He would know.

"You don't have to do this, Buck," Steve says. He has that pinched expression on his face, the one that never fails to make Bucky feel guilty.

"We're a little low on options, Stevie," he points out.

"I don't like this."

"That's because you are an awful, unrepentant control freak," Bucky says, with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "C'mon, you oversized lug. Unless you've changed your stance on forcibly removing Andersen's fingernails, this is the fastest way to get what we need."

"Still, I-" Steve falters, looking torn. "Be careful. We'll be right on the other side if things start going sideways."

"I'll be fine."

And then Natasha's stepping in behind him, clad in a pencil skirt and a razor-thin smile. There are very few people on the planet that can manage to make 'business casual' seem so goddamn terrifying.

Bucky takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and clips the mask in place. The leather fits snugly against his jaw.

It's familiar in the worst fucking way, but it's fine, he's _fine_.

 _Fine_ is all he can seem to be these days.

◢✥◣ 

"Status report, Specialist."

Natasha's voice is sharp; she has the cold, toneless disdain of a HYDRA operative down to an art.

From his place behind her, Bucky sees the instant that One snaps to. He keeps his eyes closed, but the minute tensing of his body is a dead giveaway.

He doesn't say a word.

"Status report," Natasha repeats, a little more forcefully this time. A beat and then-

"Functional," One croaks out. "Mission failure. Retrieval of palladium shipment was rendered incomplete by SHIELD."

Bucky knows it's coming, knows that Natasha's just playing a part, but she snaps her fingers and some awful, ugly part of his brain _sings_. It's natural, it's as easy as breathing: he steps forward, grabs One around the throat, and slams his head back onto the table.

The resulting _clang_ echoes around the room.

Behind the mask, Bucky sucks in a quiet breath. Holds it. Counts to ten.

This is what he's good at. This is what he was made for.

He hates it. 

"Failure is unacceptable, Specialist." Natasha's voice is icy, completely devoid of inflection. Bucky tightens his grip. "State your last mission objective."

"Infiltrate and retrieve a shipment of palladium-107 from Hammer Industries facility. Destroy evidence and rendezvous at 2100 hours," One wheezes.

One's face is purpling, but the Black Widow is relentless. "Last known status of your handler?"

"Alive."

"Location of the rendezvous?"

"207th Street Train Yard Facility."

"Location of base?"

One hesitates; Bucky sees it in his eyes. At Natasha's nod, he releases his hold and drives a fist down into his stomach.

"Does the Soldier need to refresh your memory, operative?" She asks, allowing a thread of irritation to color her tone.

"Queens," One says in between gasps. "Maspeth. An abandoned Stane Industries shipping site. 48th Street."

And that- that doesn't seem _right_ , somehow, but he can't put his finger on why.

There's a long, drawn-out moment of silence before Natasha nods.

"Very well. We will deal with the consequences of your incompetence at a later date." She gives Bucky a dismissive wave. "Soldier, with me."

Bucky rips the mask off as soon as the door shuts. Beside him, Natasha keeps her distance as he heaves in a breath.

"He's hiding something," he says, running his flesh hand through his hair and resisting the urge to _yank_.

Natasha's polite enough to ignore the faint trembling of his fingers.

"I agree," she says. "There _is_ a shipping facility in Maspeth, but the SHIELD Strike Team intercepted him en-route in Washington Heights. The most efficient way to Queens is via the Saw Mill, not through Manhattan."

Bucky shakes his head as he straightens. "No, no, there's something more- the palladium. Sam said the Hammer warehouse handled commercial goods, not radioactive heavy metals. None of this adds up, Nat."

Natasha's lips thin almost imperceptibly. "It may be time to pay Pepper Potts another visit." 

◢✥◣

In the past twenty-four hours, Six has learned exactly three things.

One: the star is not a star, but rather a miniaturized fusion reactor powered by a palladium isotope. The decay of the core is harnessed by an electron-capture system, allowing the reactor to generate an enormous amount of electrostatic energy.

The technology is completely and utterly unique.

And it is keeping Six alive.

That is the second thing he learns: the reactor powers a magnet, and the magnet prevents small pieces of metal from entering his heart. _Shrapnel_ , but that word makes his ears buzz and his chest ache with a phantom pain.

People are not meant to walk around with metal in their veins. He is not a person. These two facts are equally true and impossible to reconcile.

"Give me updates, Number Six."

His handler is pacing the floor of the workshop, attention drawn to his phone. Underneath that cloying, polite smile, he is clearly agitated.

"Fabrication units operating at full capacity, sir," he replies. "Once the necessary quantity of palladium has been obtained, prototype completion is estimated at four hours, seventeen minutes."

There is a heavy pause. "And without the palladium?"

Six resists the urge to blink in surprise.

"The reactor is calibrated to a specific decay pattern," he says slowly, working to keep his face as neutral as possible. "Without the palladium, the entire schematic will need to be redrawn."

This is the wrong thing to say.

In two strides, Sir is across the room. The first blow sends Six stumbling back a few steps; the second, crashing into a workbench. He rights himself quickly, tasting blood.

 _Fight_ , a voice whispers. He will not. He should not.

He can throw this man across the room with one hand. Disobedience will be punished.

Again, the dissonance makes his head spin.

"Can it be done?" Sir asks.

Six considers this. That nagging feeling is back, scraping at the surface of his mind, and he finds himself unsure if it _should_ be done.

"Finding another suitable element and adjusting the specifications would take at least another week, sir," he says.

 _For someone else_ , he does not say.

Another backhand makes his face sting.

"Answer the question, Number Six," his handler says with exaggerated patience. "I won't ask again."

Six keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead. "Yes. Yes, it can be done."

Sir steps back, and his entire demeanor seems to shift. That pleasant mask is back in place, all traces of violence tucked neatly away.

"Excellent," he says, adjusting his cufflinks and heading towards the door. "See to it. You have two days."

Six watches him leave, considering.

In the past, his handlers have regarded him with indifference or mild distaste. Any punishment at their hands had been consequential, a result of unsatisfactory performance.

The third thing Six learns is that his handler, for all intents and purposes, _hates_ him.

He is unsure what to do with this information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, questions, yelling, etc. all welcome. 
> 
> kinkshame me on [tumblr](https://ventrie.tumblr.com)


End file.
